The Color of Grey
by thousandyearflower
Summary: There is a saying, back where I came from. "Tragedy is an exhibition of the shattered form of beautiful things." Reincarnation!SI-based-OC Set around the period of the Third Shinobi War.
1. I

**Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.**

* * *

The shack was still far, a whole open field away. I despaired when I saw the total lack of cover spanning the distance between safety and me.

I didn't dare to look back again. I was the hunted in this sick game of chase, and I was losing. They outranked me on a complete different plane, and I teetered on the verge of the forest, still hesitating, then a cold wind whooshed past my back, bringing with it a streak of pain. I swallowed a yelp, and stumbled out of the bushes, into the cold grey light of the full moon.

* * *

It started out a lot more peacefully.

* * *

Haiko. Grey child. That is my name, and though once upon a time it was vastly different, I can't remember that first name now.

When the woman I only remembered as a blur of warmth and love and 'Mother' gave me that name, my world was black and white and grey.

Such a fitting name.

I would not refer to my birth as a 'birth'. I do not remember it, and for that I am grateful. The most I could recall was the sensation of resurfacing from unfathomable depths, of blinking open sleep-crusted eyes only to see nothing more than grey. The colors came much. much later, but came anyway.

When I regained consciousness, the first thing I registered was that I did not know where I was nor how I came to be here. Vague memories of a colorful life past flashed through my mind's eye, and when the initial buzz of consciousness fell away and I realized I was supposed to be much bigger than this little bundle of blankets, a headache roared, slamming into me like a sledgehammer. I felt my head to be too small, too full, and my brain pounded against its confines like a savage.

I did what babies do when they're in pain: I wailed, loud and shrill.

When I could bear to think again, I realized _this wasn't right. _From the way I viewed the world to the very feeling that was me, it was all wrong.

I had the memories of another life, another world — a world fueled by mechanics and technology, a world full of color, a world brimming with life.

A world that didn't seem to be this one.

But I did not mention it to Mother, nor did I like referring to those memories as my 'past life'. I chose not to think of them as much as possible, only focusing on the present. At any rate, my mind processed the vast array of information, and like a computer after churning out an answer to horrifically complex math equation, spluttered and went to sleep.

* * *

Mother was pretty in a very oriental way: black hair, sharp chin, slim lips and almond eyes. The only exceptional feature she had was her eyes.

Her eyes were beautiful. There was no other word. They weren't beautiful because of their shape, though it played a role. Her eyes were a distinct shade of grey. Not light grey, not dark grey, just grey. No difference between iris and pupil, only a faint outline hinting at the differentiation between iris and sclera. She also had a tattoo of sorts, graceful looping lines in the vague imitation of butterfly wings, surrounding her grey eyes, accentuating them.

Do I have them too? How would it look on me?

* * *

I was born at home, secluded. I do not recall seeing any wall that resembled the white tiles of a hospital.

Being reborn, as I came to realise, was not fun. It was like accidentally wiping all records in a video game that was one level away from completion, then forced to go through everything again, tutorial included.

The first year of my new life was filled with desperate attempts to regain mobility and control over my own body and relearn communication. Making a fist and swinging it like a club was instinctual, moving individual fingers were another issue. I must have made a strange sight, barely fourth months and already sitting upright, unsupported, for hours on end, staring at her hands, whose fingers twitched sporadically, sometimes individually, sometimes altogether.

Lucky for me, Mother seemed all for my accelerated growth and unnatural awareness.

Walking, after half a year, was relatively easier, partly because I cheated by using the walls all the time, partly because Mother would help me. When I could walk independently after a month of practice, I was filled with childish delight, Mother equally so.

For all her adult maturity, that day when I could walk, presumably half a year ahead of normal child schedule, that woman celebrated by doing a crazy little jig that included several pirouettes and mid-air kicks, grinning like a maniac.

I knew better, but I still say she was showing off her superior leg muscles.

* * *

My silence as a babe didn't seem to perturb her. It encouraged her to talk, if anything else.

As I didn't like baby talk, or the sounds a baby voice box made, at all, nothing much could make me make sounds.

It wasn't until my first birthday, sometime at the beginning of summer, when Mother began to teach me to talk in the bizarre, chopped language, that I discovered my voice for the first time. ("Aa, ii, u, e, o," Mother pronounced, slowly, clearly, and even though those vowels were foreign to me, I was half-sure I've heard them somewhere before. Maybe, a familiar language meant a familiar world, just set back in time.)

The root syllables were short, hard, stiff, yet when stringed into a sentence it had an exotic elegance. I learned with the desperation of a starved man, and with a fresh brain empty of knowledge, I learned exponentially. Sometimes, in moments of epiphany, I would ponder a normal child's learning curve and how I've just scrapped decades of research, but due to my still-recovering brain, those moments were fleeting and far between.

Mostly I learned because I could.

By the time half my second year was over, I could talk with some measure of fluency, and Mother began to tell me stories.

Wild stories, they were, filled with heroes and magic and Disney deaths. Deadly swamps were also a highlight, and Mother seemed especially fascinated with gruesome deaths. Almost none of her protagonists, never named, survives to the end.

Once, as she gleefully recounted a set death de lux, inclusive of main dish decapitation and side-dish porcupine imitation of external quills (throwing knives), I clapped my hands over my ears and squeaked, "Mother, censorship!"

* * *

On my second birthday, Mother surprised me by gifting me a set of brush and ink, and started to teach me how to write what she called 'kanji'. There was an indisputable likeness to the Mandarin characters I knew, once upon a time, so learning them came easy to me, but their meanings not much.

For example, 'it's alright' was apparently written, in kanji, with the Mandarin meaning of 'first husband'.

But calligraphy was fun, and I loved to learn.

I wasted lots of ink in those beginning months, Mother laughing herself silly at my wobbly lines that looked more like caricatures of lego blocks than words that seeped through the rice paper onto the wooden table.

It was hard, forcing my fingers to get used to an alien grip (a grip which I recognized, but due to my previous heritage never learnt) and when I did manage to write words that were acceptable to look at, I puffed with accomplishment and pride.

Other than calligraphy, she also taught me to draw ink art. She's jumping the gun, and we both knew. "Just so you have a basic understanding of the beauty of ink and paper, Haii-chan," she smiled.

Perhaps she wanted to console me on my color blindness, by introducing something whose beauty lies in the fact that it sports only a black and white gradient?

There's something magical, I believed, regardless of her intention, in the way ink flowed from brush and turned mere lines into art.

Mother owned an entire set of wooden instruments for drawing. Besides narrating disturbing stories, drawing was another thing Mother loved.

"Kitsune no Yomeiri," and a picture of a sun-shower around our small cottage would spring to the paper with a swish of her brush, and if I looked carefully, there would be several fox snouts poking out from the bamboo, several wispy fox tails disappearing into the bamboo stalks.

I was never allowed out of the house, and it was through paintings that I learnt how the cottage looked like.

I suspected Mother made it more picturesque, but the outlay of the house matched the interior.

There was the hay-thatched roof which leaked water whenever it rained too hard; the porch that ran around the entire house, extending several feet from the interior; the elevated floor, to combat possible flooding and high temperature in summer; the wood windows with paper panes, the bottom half empty so that I could look out and air can circulate; the bamboo forest outside; a hint of the vegetable garden at the back.

"Uzumaki," she had said, as she led me through her art room, pointing to an abstract landscape with pools and spiraled buildings. Then, "Konoha." she said fondly, gesturing to another similar painting, also a landscape but with angular architecture and haphazard piping. The second one was more detailed, likely drawn with drier ink and smaller brush.

It puzzled me. Why were nouns drawn as pronouns?

Then she explained. Those were two villages to the east, two villages that she once lived in and loved.

She even taught me the kanji of those two words. Maelstrom, the first meant. Leaf, the other.

The warning bells in the recesses of my mind rang that entire day.

* * *

_"What delightful piles of timber," _a voice murmured in the back of my head. _"Not somewhere I want to be in case of a fire."_

* * *

A month after my second birthday, I saw my first color. It was also then that Mother stopped looking at me in the eye. Behind my head, on my nose, not at me at all, she avoided eye contact at all costs.

It distressed me greatly, but not as much as the origin of the color I was seeing.

There was a wisp-like substance that floated around the house, outside the house, all around. It wasn't tangible, because when I tried catching it in my hands. It slipped through my fingers and it was like trying to catch mist. It was green.

Attempts to directly interact with them always left me fatigued.

It was like seeing wind currents, or the flow of latte in a coffee just stirred.

Trying to navigate myself with my vision clogged with green was a hard task, as they sometimes obstructed my line of sight. I would trip over flat ground while walking, or reach for something that was still quite a distance off.

The cottage wasn't very diverse on color either. The shades weren't very different in the first place, which made walking all the harder.

Mother noticed, but said nothing.

Eventually I asked, and Mother pondered. After what seemed like an internal debate, she told me that what I was seeing was a type of energy inherent to the world. She left it at that.

A week later, she left the cottage for a while, a first, leaving me several scrolls to read. She returned by nightfall.

* * *

I had believed, as all children were prone to, that I was safe, without a doubt. That confidence didn't last.

* * *

It was the end of my second winter.

Spring was coming, I could see it. Not in the plants or the animals, but in the shade of green in the air. It had turned slightly shimmery, as it was prone to at the changing of seasons.

Mother made dinner, yukata sleeves rolled up, telling me culinary tips, though I was not yet tall enough to reach the tabletop without standing on stacked stools. There was something strange with our counter, I long decided, it was significantly taller than normal ones. Call it a gut feeling, if you will.

For one, even Mother used a stool when cooking. For two, even when Mother took the knives out to use, I could never see them clearly. I hear the chopping, I see her arms moving, and I know she's using them, but that was it.

In fact, it was a peculiar trait in house: it had no reflective surfaces. Absolutely none. No mirrors, no bronze mirrors, no glass window panes, not even polished wooden surfaces. My hair was left to grow and Mother would brush it occasionally. The same want for her's.

Not that I minded, it just bothered me a little. Two years old, going onto three, and I don't know my own face.

I was finishing the soup (it had some type of herb and it made me cringe) when Mother suddenly tensed up.

She was alert at once, more than I had ever seen her. She shifted to face the back of the house ever so slightly, and after she served dinner, she walked out to the backyard.

As she turned and left, I noticed the markings around her eyes expanding, intricate lines crawling into two large butterfly wings, one for each eye. On her snow-white skin, it looked strikingly like ink.

The green in the house shivered uncharacteristically.

A few minutes later she returned, the lines crawling back into their original design. She was a little paler than before, which said volumes given her normal complexion of paper white. She smiled at me, a little tight, and said, "Haii-chan, eat quickly." Then she exited the kitchen.

I did as I was told, and was cleaning up the cutlery when Mother returned.

Her usual yukata had been exchanged for a flak jacket. I don't know what a flak jacket actually meant, neither in my previous existence nor this one, but naming the ash grey sleeveless jacket with the many chest pockets to be a flak jacket seemed right. (_What was it used for again...what was it—ouch, fuck, never mind forget it._) She had a black undershirt with a bright grey swirl on its shoulder, and dark grey pants wrapped in bandages near the ankles, where she tucked it all into open-toed sandals. (_damn! where have I seen them before?_)

I swallowed. The warning bells returned, more shrill than ever.

Mother had on her arm one of those sling backpacks, and she held out a hand to me.

Hesitantly, I walked to her.

She ruffled my hair, and passed me the backpack. I slipped it on, and looked at her quizzically.

"We're going away," she said, her smile turning her eye into pleasant crescents. "I don't know whether we'll be back. Just follow me, okay?"

She knelt, and presented her back to me.

I nodded, then climbed onto her back.

* * *

As we exited the house, her footsteps were quieter than a cat's. Once we slipped out of the house, she whispered to me, "Keep low and hold on tight, Haii-chan."

It was like flooring the engine. There was the one long, suspended moment of inertia when the engine whirrs up and then the car is off, streaking down the road. This is exactly how Mother ran. I could feel her muscles tensing, quivering like a taunt bowstring, below me as we stood on the porch, then (_vrroom!_) she's off! There were no branches in a bamboo forest, so Mother was playing the ultimate obstacle race with nature as she raced through the forest with me on her back.

And not a moment too late.

Just a mere beat after we took off, a roar and an explosion deafened me.

I turned to look, and was met with a blaze of grey that reached into the heavens. The explosion had been a fireball, which hit the house and everything within a two-meter radius, sending them flaring into flame. Grey flames roared and flooded the bamboos, which in turn crackled and popped. The fire seemed alive, chasing us, despite the fact that fresh bamboo wasn't very flammable, the heat pressuring us to go faster, faster. Mother sped up, but it seemed to me that the flames were slowly but surely catching up, I could almost see devilish fingers grasping blindly for me within the flames and I pulled close to Mother with a cry of fear but it still licked Mother's feet no not a burn a burn will slow us down and then we're dead—Mother spun around, holding me securely on her back and away from the hungry flames, worked her mouth, then spit, hard, and what came out wasn't a glob of saliva but a giant bubble of water, growing and growing within seconds like a gum bubble and then it detached from Mother's mouth and kind of plopped onto the flames, bursting apart and dousing all flames within a meter with a nasty hiss.

I saw Mothers's lips curve into a quick smile, then in the same motion spun back on track and kept running.

That was the last of the pursuit, at least for now.

* * *

We cleared the bamboo and emerged to see a stream, gurgling pleasantly. With a barely concealed sigh, Mother dropped into the water with a splash, soaking her blistered leg. She turned to smile at me, "Sorry, kaa-san has to let you down for a bit. Don't wander, okay?"

I nodded, and slipped off myself into the stream, starting to help Mother role up her burned leggings to expose the burn.

"Lucky for me it's so small," she said, and I winced for her when she gripped the fabric that's stuck to the burn and ripped. She did a quick motion with her hands (_…handseal? oh dear gods it's real_) and a green glow surrounded them. She placed her hands on the burn area, and within a few seconds the blisters faded.

Before she could complete the healing (the skin was still raw and darker than the surrounding area) her head snapped up, and I followed, a beat late.

I strained my ears, but heard nothing.

She hurriedly picked me up. "On, quickly, Haii-chan."

I bit my lip, and clung on tight as we once again ran, slower.

* * *

We followed the river, the bamboo forest peeling away behind us. Once we reached the edges of a real forest, Mother began to engage in some form of ariel acrobatics. Up and down branches she went, winding around trunks and splashing into puddles and doubling back from routes. I couldn't tell how fast we were going by sight, since everything was simply a grey blur, but Mother's pace was evident to me, who sat on her back.

Dawn soon came, black giving way to wisps of lighter and lighter grey as the sun rose, and on we ran.

"Kaa-san," I said at length, resting my head on her hair. "Shouldn't we stop to rest? You must be tired."

She laughed softly and a tad bit out of breath.

"Kaa-san's not tired. She just hasn't done anything similar for a while. We'll make it, Haiko, don't worry."

After that I swore her arms, which had been holding me up on her back all this while, began to shake.

* * *

The sun was a quarter up the sky (ten o'clock…?) when finally Mother stumbled to a stop atop a tree, breathing slightly labored.

The hand that she used to brace herself against the trunk clenched into a fist. After a brief pause and a deep breath, she pushed off again.

This time we settled into a rhythm. No more slowing down, no more speeding up, no more acrobatics. Although the overall pace wasn't as fast or desperate as it was last night, it was steady, and Mother's breathing evened out after a while.

There was a spark of hope that we're both going to survive this, whatever _this _was.

* * *

It was with gritted teeth that Mother dropped from the branches into the thicket of trees a while later.

She set me down on the forest floor and smoothed back my long black hair. She started to murmur words I've never heard before, hands clutched tight on my head. I could see it clearly now: the butterfly lines were spreading, steadily, crawling all across her face.

"Kaa-san?" I voiced, grasping her hand tight when it circumvented my head and came to rest on my cheek.

Mother seemed to deflate. All the tension melted out of her shoulders and the frown lines disappeared, but she straightened suddenly and rummaged in her pockets, drawing out a scroll. She placed it in my backpack, and said, "Hold onto this. You'll meet someone who knows what to do with it. The provisions in the pack would last you a week, maybe more. Go to wards the sun, east, if you will, until you come to a house. Stay there and open the door to no one, okay?"

I nodded, and swallowing the lump in my throat. (Go east.)

She embraced me with an air of finality. "Stay alert, stay safe," she said, placing a kiss on the top of my head. "People are after me, but they don't know about you. You're smart, Haii-chan, you'll survive." And she smiled brilliantly.

"Can't kaa-san come with me?" I asked, not wanting to let go of her hand but she took it away gently, nonetheless.

Her smile turned bitter, and her mouth opened to say something, but I never got to hear it, because she suddenly turned back to face the way we've come and at a sound I must've missed, gave me a rough shove, "Go, Haiko!"

I turned, then looked back, hesitating. The sun's rays wasn't very clear on the forest floor, but if I looked up, I easily saw which side of the canopy was brighter.

"What are you waiting for?" Mother suddenly hissed, whipping her head back to me. "Run!" Her head was inclined downwards, eyes still looking over her shoulder, but for the first and last time in my life, I saw her eyes.

There was a horrible moment when I thought Mother's green eyes was going to swivel around and find mine. What _is_ that color? (Isn't the green energy in the air?)

Her pupils and iris had seemingly merged into one: a bright, startling green, the exact same shade as the currents flowing in the air. The black lines normally only around her eyes had fanned out down the sides of her face, extending down until her neck, larger than the last time I saw them.

Then she blinked and the color was gone, flickered back to white as the lines collapsed back into their usual pattern. She still wouldn't meet my eyes, but she knelt and enveloped me in one last hug.

"I know you deserve a better life, Haii-chan, and kaa-san wishes so much to explain everything to you, but we just don't have the time," she whispered, fast and low, burying her face in my shoulder. "I know this is strange and frightening, but please, just trust your kaa-san one last time: run to that house, as fast as you can. Its metal, like the picture of Konoha in our art study. Then grow up safely, become a strong lady, like in kaa-san's stories. You remember them, don't you?"

She drew back, and I saw she was smiling through her tears. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and nodded, then thought fit to add,

"The ones who killed the protagonists?"

She laughed, watery and soft. "You're a smart one," she patted my cheek, "I just know you'll survive and learn about _everything _in the world, won't you? Now, please, just go."

The green that used to swirl around me lazily suddenly tightened, like a snake coiled to strike, and Mother's voice became more urgent as she pushed my shoulder gently. "Haii-chan? Please, go. Now."

I looked up, determined where I should go, and ran. While I pushed through the underbrush, trying to be fast and quiet at the same time, I heard Mother's whisper echo from the green that surrounded me.

"I love you, baby girl."

* * *

**AN: Here we are, at the end of a checkpoint in her life. Will she survive? Or will she die? Press the next chapter to keep reading! Please review if you liked it! Review even if you didn't, actually. Of course, feel free to tell me where to improve as well, anything's welcome except for flames. If anything is unclear, review and tell me as well.**

**If anyone is confused to why Haiko's mother seemed to be running from nothing, the way I think of it, ninja don't make sounds when they travel. Even if they do, it'll take a veteran ninja to hear them, not a two-year-old kid.**

**I don't own Naruto, as much as I want to. I can't even draw to save my life.**

**I also desperately need a beta for this story, if anyone's interested, please do drop a PM or review.**

* * *

**_flower_**


	2. II

**AN: PLEASE READ THIS.**

**This story is undergoing a humongous overhaul, and thus far only 4.5 chapters are done. The chapters 7 and 8 are the pre-rework version, and are not in the same context. Read if you wish, to get a grasp of the future plot, but there would be gaps in the storyline if you do.**

**Anyway. Happy reading!**

* * *

**[First Person - Haiko]**

It was noon. The sun shone directly overhead and under the canopy, humidity peaked to unparalleled levels.

The one-layer yukata, soaked, clung to my back; my hair was a sticky, tangled mess. Once more I cursed my lack of foresight in neglecting to get at least a hair ribbon, and cemented my resolution to cut it once I get my hands on something sharp. (Or at least to a more manageable length—I like long hair.)

The light that filtered down from the treetops was a slate grey, in stark contrast to the green that curled like fingers amongst the leaves. They wrapped themselves around trunks and hung off branches, seeming to have a mind of their own as they slipped in and out of knots, curled and uncurled and chased each other in circles. Like an abstract painting brought to life, watching them alone would be entertainment enough.

Birds tittered and flew about, an occasional shadow across the beams of light. I drank in the life of the forest around me, the birdsong and insect cries, and once more felt safe.

Which, I knew, was an illusion.

A mere half day, and I wasn't a superhuman, nor was I particularly fast. No damn way I could've outran those chasing us.

I had kept to the roots of the trees, as low as possible, checking my direction every now and then. When the sun rose to the center of the sky, I began to panic. What now?

If I was to "follow the sun", I was to either try walking up into the sky, or end up going back the way I came...which I'm quite sure is not what Mother would've wanted. I also had no compass or watch, to determine the cardinal directions. How was I supposed to 'go east'?

Darting out to a patch of light, I peered up at the sun, then looked around me. I frowned.

Trees, underbrush, ferns, fungi…more trees.

Fanning my neck, I breathed deep, trying to squash the uncertainty and doubt creeping into me. When the sun starts to set, I'll know which way to go again. As the moon rises, follow that. That should be the correct direction.

Thing was, can I afford to wait that long?

Plus, sunset'll be a long while off.

* * *

Not given much choice, a while later I stopped underneath the canopy of a tree. Its branches were spread wide, interweaving with those of other trees. A towering, ancient thing, it was as sturdy as it was straight. The lowest branch was a least half a body above my head; its leaves were about the size of my head, casting dappled shade on the forest floor.

The moment I sat down, the green in the air (which had been a constraint stream behind me like a luminescent tail) began to cocoon themselves around me. For a second I panicked, because I couldn't see beyond them, but then as if it realized my anxiety it began to thin, until it was like a green veil between the world and me.

Tentatively, I reached out a hand. The green stayed at an arm's length, and like always, my hand disturbed the green slightly — parting it in a circle like water vapor — but passed through without obstruction.

I dropped my arm and settled under the tree with a shrug.

My aching muscles and strung-tight nerves gradually relaxed in the song of the forest, and coupled with the forest heat lulled me to sleep

* * *

When I woke, it was to a slightly dimmer world. A glance upwards determined that it was dusk, or sometime near: the lighter shades came from my right. Before I fell asleep it came from my left.

The green parted like a veil, and dissipated into their usual swirly streams.

Stretching, I stifled a yawn before noticing an itch on my legs. Reaching down to scratch absent-mindedly, I felt something small, cool and soft. Several somethings. It was thin, and it wriggled.

My vision snapped down, hand frozen in place, and I saw a pulsing black mass, filled with tiny glistening body parts and the minute clicking of too many feet.

A swarm of worms was covering my feet and ankles. A lone ranger was venturing up my hand. I couldn't even tell what type of worm were they — centipedes? maggots? roundworms? _millipedes? _— I just knew they had too many legs.

It took me a whole second to register what I was seeing before I screamed, shrill and high, jerking my hand and flinging the worm away before drawing up my legs to brush them off, and my eyes strayed to the ground beside me.

I let loose another shriek, equal parts terrified and disgusted, leaping up off the ground, which I now saw to be seething with the same mass of worms. My breath lodged in my throat, and without another look at the churning soil I turned and bolted. It would be upon reflection that I realized the churning of the earth was linear, leading into the underbrush. (Perhaps that was how they found me?)

As I ran, I hopped desperately from one foot to the other, brushing and shaking off the creepy-crawlies that still clung to my legs.

What the hell?!

The ground suddenly came rushing up to meet me, and even as the green surged in—to what, cushion my fall?—I fell with a huge splash into a puddle of mud hidden by a protruding branch that I completely missed, partially because of the preoccupation with my legs, partially because of a glitch in depth perception due to my vision.

The splash generated completely shadowed me, and while on the bright side there instantly were no more worms, I was also instantly soaked from head to foot with dirt and mud and other congealed sediments of the earth. Night was approaching, too, bringing with it chill. Damn it.

I suppose it helps I no longer smell solely of human sweat.

I picked myself up from the puddle. In the grey light of the setting sun I examined myself: one sandal had been lost when I fell, the other's toe strap had broken. With a resigned sigh, I kicked it off. Hair hung in dirty strands around my face, and a swipe to keep it behind my ear left a chilly streak of wet dirt on my cheek.

Looking down, the skin of my hand was almost luminously pale next to the patches of muddy water and soil. The light of dusk shone above me, a calming shade of grey. I breathed in, breathed out, and set to climbing out of the ditch.

The backpack snagged several branches on the way out, and when I finally fought free of the mud ditch, there were tears all over it. I switched to carrying the pack on my front so that I would know when something falls out of those rips. And then my yukata, already soft due to its wetness, caught its sleeve on a thorn bush, producing a large, jagged tear form elbow to shoulder. A second later, I ripped off the entire sleeve. What's the use leaving it on? The hole was just going to slow me down.

The light of dusk's coming from the right, so to the left it is.

* * *

The sun had set, and it was much harder to see by moonlight. Moonlight changed the color distribution of the surroundings, and the green seemed to be nocturnal, emerging in mass quantities in comparison to the mere whiffs of it in the day. They hovered, there really was no other word for it, over objects like tree roots, curling and twisting. As a semi-luminous substance, it shone with a shocking intensity, but did not light my way, instead blocking it. I had tripped harshly more than once, opening scrapes on mostly my knees, feet and palms, but overall I had scratches from thorn bushes, dangling tree branches and sundry, and while they bled little, I was mostly worried about the getting dried dirt into those wounds and infecting them. Who knows when I'll be found, if at all? A skin infection can become fatal, but the process is excruciatingly long.

The moon was full, but its light didn't pierce the canopy like sunlight, and I went the wrong way too many times to count. Beneath the trees, I was more unsure of my direction then ever.

The forest seemed unending. I wasn't going to starve or dehydrate in greenery, but I sure can get tired or poisoned or loose my way. I haven't heard any animals since night set in, and it was unsettling.

Where is this 'house' Mother wants me to go, anyway? Does it take longer to reach on foot? Did Mother misjudge the distance and send me on a hopeless journey?

And then the trees in front of me thinned just as the moon reached that section of the sky that's directionally ambiguous, and like a horse nearing a precipice, the green energy reared back and banked at the edge of the tree-line, looking for all the world to be loitering. Not to say there weren't any green fingers beyond the trees, just their amounts had diminished exponentially.

I stopped at the edges of the woods, but for a rather different reason, I'd think. Is that the house?

It was ramshackle thing, mattered with what looked to be mold and crawling with vines. Its roof was domed, and grey all over, but in this light everything looked the same shade to me. From far, I could only tell it wasn't any flammable material such as wood, but I highly doubted it was fully metal (_"…metal…")_. Pipes were taped haphazardly around its walls, water? and there were no windows_ (…haphazard piping)_. I lingered in the shade of the forest, at the last minute not quite willing to leave the comforting shade of the forest where the green that had been a huge part of my life, preferred to be.

Why won't they leave the forest?

And it seemed I hesitated too long because in the next instant, there was a crow of laughter, high and harsh, and a twig behind me snapped.

I froze, a habit which I'll grow to despise very quickly, and the same laughing, dry voice croaked, "Look at the little brat. Frozen in it's tracks like its caught in its own trap!"

"Go on," jeered another voice, "Go out into the open."

My heart began to pound, harsh and fast, and the green around me seemed to pulse with the same urgency. I scanned the treetops, squinting, trying to make out human shapes that I knew had to be there.

Had they been following me all this while?

But as usual the leaves and branched and what little patches of the night sky I could see was a dark shade of grey, and due to the luminosity of the green at night, it was all the more difficult to make out distinct shapes with that jumble of similar shades.

Then, long, sharpened things hit the ground before me, slicing into skin on their way down. The projectiles sank hilt-deep into the earth, glittering in the moonlight.

There were rambunctious laughter in the treetops as I backpedaled frantically and turned to run back into the trees.

More kunai knives embedded themselves before me, one scraping my shoulder and another nicking my hand.

I quelled the urge to cry. The green was twisting and snapping in the air like a whip pulled taunt and swung, but did nothing to help. In fact, it made the shadows seem thicker and—

More laughter from above.

"What's the kiddie trying to do, huh?" One of them taunted. "Is it trying to fall over?"

Desperately, I looked for a way out. Backwards—blocked. Sideways—probably blocked, don't want to try. Downwards and upwards—not possible. Forwards—...fuck.

I turned and looked, and the figure silhouetted in the silvery moonlight was clear as day.

A shinobi (_books panels right-to-left black-on-white inked faces colored covers__)_ stood in the center of the tiny clearing, white mask so bright it almost glittered in the moonlight. He twirled a kunai, darker than the blackness around it, on one finger. It flashed weakly in the dim light. The green that was in the clearing, previously milling aimlessly around like all the others, shied away from him.

I teetered on the edges of the trees, still hesitating, but a stiff breeze brushed my back, bringing with it a slash of white-hot pain. Stifling a cry, I stumbled out of the forest.

It felt curiously like detaching myself from a membrane. The moment I was out in the open, a layer of skin seemed to peel off, leaving me feeling exposed and scared.

The taunting laughter was louder than ever, and a part of my mind detached from reality screamed at them. _What type of soldier are you to laugh as you kill children?!_

Two shadows quivered to a stop beside the first figure. One also had a porcelain mask, the other mask-less. The one without the mask looked distinctly uncomfortable. The masks were pure white, with eye holes like spots of darkness within their face. The green backed away from the three in the center like a person from a quarantine, leaving a wide berth between themselves, backing until they were at the edges of trees. Curiously, several tendrils still stubbornly clung to my figure, hanging around a handspan away, coiling and uncoiling but not leaving.

I drew strength from that.

On the forehead of the mask-less shinobi (_posters wallpapers figurines __**where have I seen them before**?__)_ was a plague stitched onto dark-colored cloth. On the plague, illuminated by the moonlight, was a peculiar insignia. It looked like a beak, or a tadpole, or a lollipop. It was a swirl, with a tail. On the opposite side of the tail, there was a small triangular protrusion, making it look like a beak. Though, in an abstract sense, it could be a leaf. If I squinted and tilted my head 23.5 degrees to the right.

Hold. Leaf? Konoha? (_Wood water fire wind strength faces-on-a-mountain a village reduced to earth—_)

Before that track of thought could take me anywhere, one of them swung out a gleaming katana.

I gulped, thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

Moonlight glinted off the bottom half of the blade, illuminating the bloody top half. Said shinobi (_ANBU Konoha Suna Kumo Iwa Kiri Kage Fourth Shinobi War_) swiped out a cloth to clean off the blood, but stopped, looked towards me and smirked.

"I think I'll save the blood," he said, walking slowly forwards as I retreated with small, stumbling steps. In a flash of grim epiphany I felt like the prey to his hunt. "After all, it's your mummy's blood."

I froze, then, entirely, eyes zeroed in on the blood coating the sharp edge of the katana.

_Mother's blood?_

...of course. What else than a fatal encounter with the enemy would cause a sane, sensible adult to abandon a two-year-old, no matter how intelligent, to herself?

Still, having that fact laid out me like this was shocking, to say the least.

Seeing it had a peculiar effect on me.

While the part of my brain that operated on old memories melted in a puddle of fear and nausea at seeing a whole knife-length of _blood_, actual congealing viscous flaky dark red liquid clinging onto something sharp and metal, the new mind, the new instincts (that area that told me the green was harmless, that told me to keep to the undergrowth, that is telling me now to _look at their eyes_) sprang forth.

I looked with a sense of detachment as the one with the katana advanced, the blade's gleam in the moonlight checkered by the spots of blood, and the shinobi (_hidden village ranks missions clans **which is he**?_) himself take away his white mask, revealing a face shrouded by shadow. He wore the same insignia on his forehead.

I felt myself straighten, saw my vision tunnel. The green tendrils which had previously refused to come near now streaked in, towards the three shinobi (_pinwheel all-seeing creation ice bone dust lavarockmagma blast __what's his does he have one__?_), and like grasping fingers finding their mark, clutched onto them with a finality I felt in my bones.

At the same time, I felt my strength leaking like air from a popped balloon, and knew my timer was ticking down.

What the timer timed, I had no idea.

Meanwhile, the man wielding the katana had the biggest quantity of green clinging to him, so much so that the translucent green became opaque. A solid fist of green energy had latched onto him, and the shinobi (_only a person with tremendous chakra can become a sage** sage? what's a sage?**_)was oblivious to it. He did nothing to remedy his situation, nor did he glance at the energy covering his lower body in a maelstrom of green.

He stalked forwards, eyes glinting hollow in the moonlight, and to his surprise and against my better judgement, I waited, outwardly calm and unmoving.

I blinked, slow and steady, purposeful, opening my eyes wide to draw his attention.

(What am I doing?)

And he looked, matching my gaze, giving me a split second to register the dawning shock and horror on his face.

And the green _moved_.

With a low roar that I suspected only I could hear, the green previously around him, clinging onto him, _outside _him, surged up and inwards, entering his body through the natural crevices of the human skin, and a second later the solid fist of green had all entered his body and—

The shinobi (_black knives and blades and fireballs waterfalls gales avalanches all from a man but still fragile, still human_) doubled over, blade clattering the to ground all but forgotten as he clawed at his chest, a howl escaping his mouth, of pain and of warning.

"The brat has the eyes, the brat has the ey—aargh!"

(Eyes?)

I watched with a kind of morbid fascination and detachment: inside the grey figure, a blue flame had been lit, spreading along the lines of a circulatory system I could not identify, but as soon as it was formed it began to splutter, wavering in a phantom wind; I saw the green energy flooding that system, drowning the blue flame within, but only concentrated around his chest, unable to spread anywhere else. The end was signified when the thick blue veins gave one last valiant effort at a puff but was squashed mercilessly. The energy slithered out from his ears and mouth and nose, flowing back into nature to join their comrades that had freshly emerged from the forest, leaving the man's blue labyrinth with a gaping grey chest cavity.

(I would not know this until much later, but at that moment, the man could no longer breathe.)

Tendrils of green around the shinobi (_a never-ending cycle of **birth.** death rebirth_) on the ground began to do what they always did: coil and uncoil, wrap and unwrap, knot and unknot.

Their business was done.

The blue flame within the man, blindingly bright in their heyday, began to extinguish itself, slowly, an ever-widening circumference, the grey area of torso as its origin.

Within seconds, the shinobi (_always, always, birth **death. **rebirth_) went still.

(I had killed my first, and I did not know it.)

(A perfect murder.)

"Ochidai?" the question came from one of the masked shinobi (_friends comrades through-hell-and-back **what have I done**?_). "Oi, Ochidai?"

His voice began to shake as he took a step forwards. The third shinobi (rules over emotions the mission always comes first) did not stop him.

The second man took brisk steps towards the first, mask firmly on, body language betraying his wariness.

I saw the second man flip the first, who had fallen on his front, over, heard the second grunt with the effort. The green previously loitering in the space around the first seemed to find new prey, and latched onto the second.

As his still partner, the second shinobi (_birth death **rebirth?**_) did not respond in any way to the green tendrils wrapping almost lovingly around him.

Then his head snapped up to look at me, and in the blink of an eye he was in front of me, the difference in stature so stark it bordered on hilarity.

A black knife glinted in his hand, which he swung up then down, aiming for me. Except he made one mistake.

Due to the huge difference between our heights, he towered over me, looking almost vertically down at me.

All I had to do was tilt my head, and I met his eyes, glinting jewels in the shadowed black of his mask, straight on.

With a relish, the green poured into him, through his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, skin pores, all over.

Like the first man, a blue flame within him sparked to life, but did not reach the same brightness. It spluttered and wavered and highlighted a system of veins, but as before, the green energy flooding into his body overshadowed it.

This time, however, the energy did not attack the blue flames directly. The green spread of its own accord, outlining a different, but entwining, system.

For my ears alone, there was a small cracking sound, like a hairline fracture spreading in ice.

In mere seconds, the green had flowed, like liquid chocolate in a mold, into every crevice, every branch of that alien spiderweb system, overlapping but not covering the blue veins.

Inches above my head, the hand with the kunai didn't move, couldn't move, couldn't even open its palm to drop the weapon.

The green inside him reached into his head, snaking its way inside, under and over where his brain was, then seemed to evaporate out of his body through his ears. Once outside, they reformed, then did a delighted loop-a-loop. The blue veins had frozen, no longer pulsing, no longer moving, slowly dimming.

I felt a bone-deep exhaustion creep into me.

Mutely I raised my hands, went on a little tippy-toe, took the second shinobi's (_manga? anime? cartoon? novels? fiction? **where have I read this?**_) arm and moved it so that the tip of the blade was positioned beneath his neck.

While it moved under my guidance, I heard little cracking sounds.

Then I shoved it upwards, using the same force to steady my feet on the ground. He was a little too tall for me.

At the same time the metal pierced skin, there was a mighty 'crrrrack!' and the blue flames in his arm cracked, broke.

A shower of blood accompanied stony flesh. I sidestepped out from his shadow and missed the deluge.

He collapsed, upper body falling to pieces, mask useless. His eyes, still attached to his head which was very much not attached to a shoulder, were bloodshot and dead.

I turned to face the third and final one. At least, I hope he's the last one.

He stood in the middle of the clearing, a sentry between me and safety.

He did not show any emotion or reaction. His mask was firmly on.

Upon closer inspection, he was wearing armor. Not a lot, nor the heavy, tank-bruiser kind of armor, but light armor. All grey, he had a chest plate, arm and shin guards, and some kind of sword strapped to his back. Its handle was almost as long as his head.

(_Katana. **You think you can break Mugen? Go ahead and try.**_)

His arms were bare, his shoulder-length hair hung around his mask. He wore a turtleneck. His mask, I suddenly realized, had four eye holes.

He did not move, still as a statue.

With a sinking dread, I realized this last man would not be as easy a catch as the other two.

He was taking me seriously. I could feel it in the air.

As the stalemate continued, I felt more and more tired. My eyes threatened to slip shut.

I wobbled.

He disappeared.

Shock, combined with the fatigue I was trying, and failing, to suppress, made my legs weaken, and I dropped to the ground on my knees.

Just in time, too.

A whoosh passed right through where my head had been a half-second ago. The figure of the third shinobi (_fast as wind and elusive as shadow they are the best there is_) appeared in front of me, kunai in hand, halfway through his swing, then disappeared, a half-second later reappearing back in the middle of the clearing.

In my mind, the second hand ticked once.

In my vision, the green around him had just began to be displaced by his movement.

"Your luck is running high, girl," he said, softly but clearly. "For that I congratulate you."

I tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn't move.

The shinobi gave his kunai a spin. And disappeared.

I tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn't move.

And reappeared, the mere hint of a shadow behind me.

This time the green moved as fast as him, swirling into a shield-like structure behind me, but before it could properly form, dispersed like smoke in wind. I was too tired.

I resigned myself to whatever that was next, squeezing my eyes shut. No point fighting now.

And was not prepared for the bodily tackle, nor a deafening hissing.

It knocked the wind out of me, and when my savior rolled—earth over sky over earth over empty full moon—to a stop a few meters away from the fighting, the brobdingnagian dark grey snake suddenly thrashing around in the clearing took any breath that was left. He deposited me on the ground, and I stayed that way for a few seconds, mouth agape and lungs struggling to work.

Like when you laugh too hard, and the next round is bubbling out, but you need to breathe in too, and there's this clash of interests and you freeze somewhere in the action of expelling and inhaling and you _can't breathe—_

"Breathe," chortled my savior in a rumbling laugh, "Don't wanna go through all that trouble only for you to die now, do we?"

I choked, eyes never leaving the sudden existence of the snake and its undulating coils while scrambling to my feet, feeling nausea twist my stomach.

My savior was silent a while more, then gave me a good-natured thump on the back that was a tad too harsh and removed any air I managed to wrestle back into my lungs past the rising bile and forced me back onto my knees.

Thanks, friend.

"Orochimaru would take care of it," he said, and while the name rang some dim, but shrill, warning bells, the scene before me was adequately distracting. "Let's get you somewhere safer, then we'll talk."

As I watched, a blue flame flickered to life inside the man and the snake. I felt bile rise again as the blue spread like a map, detailing to me the anatomy of the snake and the man.

Following the fight through the shining beacons of colored light, I saw my would-be killer leap into the air and his blue giving a sudden quiver, then a spurt of fire temporarily lit up the night. The snake gave a deafening hiss, slithering lightning-fast out of the way.

Without a warning, or anything at all, the great snake gave a rearing twist that had my spine tingle in sympathy and with a move like a striking cobra, caught the shinobi from the air in a mighty snap of its humongous jaws. Immediately, all the color that was left in the clearing was the blue of the snake and the humming presence of green.

I imagined a shockwave rocketing outwards from the action.

"Wha—" I raised a shaky finger at the figure of the snake, who tipped its head back and very visibly did a swallowing action, "Oh hell—" abruptly I cut myself off, loosing the fight with vomit as I puked what meager subsistence I had ingested over the past day.

"Oops," said my savior, rubbing comforting circles into my back and holding back my hair, "You shouldn't have seen that."

I heard a distinct hissing, getting louder and louder. I tensed, bile dripping from my chin, fearing that big snake was getting closer, until the hissing abruptly changed into a well-intentioned rasping.

"Do stop that Hioda-kun, you are scaring the child."

"If I let her go, promise me you won't eat her?" questioned my savior, and there was a huge vibration in the ground. Presumably the snake nodded, or moved its neck up and down in the approximation of a nod. I wiped vomit off my chin and dragged the hand across grass. Took a deep breath.

Turned around. And the blinding blue inner system of the snake was all I could see.

The gigantic coils shifted, and I was met with one beady, pale-on-white eye with a vertical slit for a pupil. It blinked, and I saw with high definition the inner eyelid slip close a fraction of a second earlier than the outer lid, and retract a fraction of a second after.

It shook its head (an earth-shaking event) and said, in that distinct rumbling voice that seemed to be coming from the center of its coils rather than the head before me, "Hmm. Brat has some power, but not enough."

The green around the snake swirled helplessly, unable to do anything, and I felt a painful tug in my chest and a crippling fatigue override me.

"Itchy," commented the snake and reared up, tail thumping the ground. The earth shuddered.

I dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, out before I felt the impact of the ground.

* * *

**[Third Person]**

Jiraiya caught the girl when she fell, limp, and gathered her limbs like a doll, then laid her out on the ground. The snake hissed a laugh.

"So?" Jiraiya asked, "Does she or does she not?"

"…yes," the snake moved its head up and down, pivoting at the neck, "but not strong. Not strong at all. I barely felt a tickle. Perhaps a tail scale was frozen, but…" it thumped said appendage on the ground. "…it flakes off like snow."

Jiraiya considered it.

"…you think this is the child Senko spoke of?" Jiraiya said finally, breaking the silence of the night.

"Have to be," Orochimaru said, "Have you ever seen a kekkei genkai that wasn't genetic?" The snake sage turned to his summon. "How green was her eyes?"

It hissed in reply. "Rather startling, I'd say, but ultimately very weak. The potential is there for it to be as powerful as Senko-sama's had been, but…"

"Thank you, Hioda-san, you may go."

A puff of smoke signaled its dismissal, but neither shinobi looked up.

Jiraiya's fingers hovered over the eyelid of the child on the ground, but Orochimaru tutted disapprovingly.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," he said, then walked to the two corpses in the clearing. "Our systems work differently from summons'. What's weak to them might be just enough to wrangle a kidney or two from us. And you need it, with all that drinking."

Jiraiya pouted, and dropped his hand.

An audible rustle sounded from the trees, and Tsunade appeared, pale and shaken, at the edge of the clearing.

Immediately, Jiraiya was by her side.

"Did you find her?" he asked, but Tsunade shook her head, shivering slightly.

"Senko's methods are still as brutal and effective as they were during the war."

Jiraiya hesitated, but couldn't contain his curiosity. "Which parts?"

"Mostly the lower half."

"What?"

"You know," Tsunade gestured awkwardly and hesitantly at the vague region where torso met legs. "Their manly bits. And some."

"All of them?"

"Appears so."

"Nowhere else?"

"Most were in various states of stuffing. Inclusive of. That. Place."

Jiraiya gave a dry chuckle. "Still dishing out pain from beyond the grave, that Senko."

Tsunade whacked him. "Don't say that, we don't know yet!"

In reply, he led Tsunade to the girl on the ground. Alarmingly, the child had began to develop a whistle when she breathed. "If Senko's still alive, why wasn't she here to deal with the ones that attacked her child?"

Tsunade sucked in a breath. "This is the child?! Why didn't you say sooner!"

She dropped to her knees hurriedly, beginning a once-over cataloguing of the child's condition.

Jiraiya stood to the side, feeling useless.

Behind them, Orochimaru let out a low whistle. Jiraiya went over instead, after warning Tsunade to not lift the child's eyelids.

Orochimaru had his autopsy tools spread out, and was gesturing with a scalpel, something grey and solid in his other hand. The dead man on the ground wasn't anymore than a corpse with the torso cut open.

"Look at this," Orochimaru breathed, in awe, and held up the thing in his hand.

Jiraiya had seen his fair share of the horrors of the internal human being during the war, but he still recoiled at the thing in Orochimaru's hand.

The thing in question was a set of lungs. Orochimaru held them by the larynx like a large bottle of sake, then turned it to show Jiraiya the opening.

It was fused shut with stone.

The whole thing looked like a solid model of a set of lungs, not a set of lungs pried out from the torso of a man.

"Solid, dense and heavy," Orochimaru was still saying, weighing the organ, "Think of the amount of chakra the child needed to use to complete something like this. This is just the first corpse. Tsunade!"

"What?" she answered in a call, and a glance told them she was healing. The soft warm glow of green hovered over the child, and it was the confirmation Jiraiya and Orochimaru needed that the child in question wasn't dead.

"How's her condition?"

"Stabilizing. A few cuts and scrapes here and there, no major injuries. The chakra exhaustion is pretty serious, but children tend to recover faster."

Jiraiya exchanged a look with Orochimaru. Chakra exhaustion. It fitted. Children aren't known for their control of chakra, and for a child as young as her to pull off two kekkei genkai moves, chakra exhaustion was a _good_ scenario.

"Let's try the next one," Orochimaru dropped the lung, where it fell with a sickening dullness to the ground. (Jiraiya half-hoped it would shatter, to prove Orochimaru wrong.)

The next corpse proved more unsettling. It had frozen in an upright position, the upper half a mess of blood and bones and stone and flesh on the ground.

With a grimace Jiraiya picked through the remains, while Orochimaru glanced into the bottom half of the waist that was still left standing.

"Wow," Jiraiya picked up a stray branch of stone after sifting through congealed blood and limp flesh. "Which system is this, Orochimaru?"

His teammate was silent, busy prodding the remains of the corpse.

Jiraiya walked over, still holding the branch, and tapped Orochimaru lightly on the shoulder.

He turned around, eyes wide with wonder.

"It's the nervous system," he whispered, eyes flitting from the coral-like branch between Jiraiya's thumb and forefinger to his face. "Unbelievable."

He spun to inspect the debris on the ground, miming what Jiraiya assumed to be the last movements of the poor soul in front of them.

And he began to rant.

"Look here, see the hand, see the arm, see the kunai in his grip, Jiraiya? We can assume he was in this position. Given his approximate height and the girl's and the posture of what is left of him, we can assume that he was slashing downwards," Orochimaru mimed a cutting action, from above his shoulder to below his waist. "We can therefore assume that the girl knew he was going to use that arm to kill her. And how do you stop an arm from moving? A person can function with a frozen lung or stomach long enough to deliver a killing blow that is merely a movement of the arm. Full-body immobilization is completely beyond her. So, what did the girl do? She froze the nervous system! Without a nervous system, the body cannot respond, voluntarily or involuntarily, which dispels the danger of immediate death. Then she must have used that arm to slash his throat, removing all possibility of death for her." The sage swooped like a hawk on the intact head of the dead man resting a few steps away.

"If we open his skull, I wonder what we'll find?" he hissed excitedly, "Jiraiya, this girl is a genius! We _have _to bring her to the village. If this is instinct, imagine if we trained her. If she was taught, it only means she can learn at an extreme rate!" There was a unstable gleam to his eyes that Jiraiya only saw around his ongoing projects. Orochimaru was not done. His hands flew to work, cutting the man's eyes and peeling the skin away from the skull like an orange. "...she was able to bypass the chakra shortage and ration problem faced by her mother by focusing on disabling the organ most vital to the current motion instead of aiming to immobilize the whole body. Oh, my friend, what a terror she'll make!"

Jiraiya stood to the side, lips pursed.

"Think of it, Jiraiya," the gleam in his eyes turned maniac. "That girl, that little child, could decipher the most important organ to immobilize under such stress! Remember the other victim," he was in a frenzy now, his hands cracking open the head of the dead man like an otter with a coconut. "Remember the position he died. Remember that it was his lungs that had sealed shut. How can you breathe without a lung? He was further from the edge of the clearing then this one. He must have thought the child was easy picking and went in causally. Oh," here Orochimaru gave a raspy laugh, "how wrong he was! The child had time, then, to freeze the lungs over. She's a genius, Jiraiya, we _must _bring her to the village!"

"Who's a genius?" Tsunade said sharply, coming over. At Jiraiya's raised eyebrow, she jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "The kid's fine. She's stabilized," Tsunade turned back to Orochimaru, then balked at the amount of congealed blood on his lap, oozing out from the severed and open head.

Resolutely not looking, Tsunade turned to Jiraiya. "What village? Who's a genius?" she repeated.

Jiraiya pulled out Senko's letter, then glanced at Orochimaru, who was giggling in delight like a child given a lifetime's worth of sweets, "Orochimaru wants to bring the child back to the village."

Tsunade's eyebrows shot up. "You mean there was another option?" she said, glaring daggers at Jiraiya's tone. "Of course we're bringing the child back! It's Senko's village, it's the child's home!"

Then she snatched the letter from his hand. A finger trailed the lines, until it stopped. "_Haii-ko,_" Tsunade tried, the alien name rolling off her tongue. "That's the kid's name."

A delighted shout issued from below them, and Orochimaru held up a bloody spectacle. Tsunade flinched and drew away, looking up into the sky. Even Jiraiya was a little unsettled.

The head had been cracked open, resembling a hideous, blooming flower. Scraps of skin and hair hung around Orochimaru's hand, revealing the cracked-open skull and a curious network of stone veins caging the grey brain. Orochimaru was holding it like a cup by the stump of a neck, the other hand's fingers flitting over the web of stone, awestruck and laughing delightedly.

"Oh, we must, _we must_, this is too good a potential to waste, Jiraiya, surely you agree?"

"Drop that," Tsunade hissed, "Let's get back!"

Orochimaru stifled his laughter, pulling out a scroll. "Alright then, just a moment to let me seal this in for future study…"

He sealed the head into the scroll and rolled it up, then Tsunade suddenly slapped her forehead.

"Argh, I forgot!" At Orochimaru and Jiraiya's curious gazes, Tsunade rummaged in her tool pouch and withdrew a scroll. "I found this one while looting the bodies of the corpses we found earlier today. I've been meaning to let you both take a look at the seal in it but, well," she gestured helplessly at the corpse in front of her, "things."

Jiraiya took it, glad to have something to work on. Tsunade and Orochimaru had their bodies, but Jiraiya liked his fingers where it wasn't wet and pulsing. Or cold and clammy, in the latter case.

The scroll was black and gold, the locking seal sprawled in blood red ink across the opening.

He almost scoffed at the poor job. He flicked his wrist, muttering an incantation, and a batch of yellow flame appeared his first three fingers, which he proceeded to swipe over the red seal.

It gave a pathetic puff of purple smoke, and when with a quick wind technique from Orochimaru it dispelled, the locking seal was broken. The scroll snapped open. Jiraiya laid it on the ground.

In the silvery light of the moon, the shinobi were nearly fooled into believe the sealing scroll held nothing.

But the seemingly blank circle flashed the faintest green, and the grey kanji for 'eye' slowly unfurled itself.

Jiraiya didn't the stone in his heart could drop further. He bent down, placed a palm over the kanji, formed the tiger seal with his other hand and muttered, "Kai."

The resulting puff of smoke was very normal. Grey and sooty, it was the quality of regular technique-smoke.

A small fanning motion of Jiraiya's hand and it dispersed.

There, on the yellow paper of the scroll, stood a small bottle about the size of Jiraiya's palm. It was filled to the brim with a transparent liquid, and in it, with peculiar buoyancy, a pair of eyes bobbed.

Tsunade sucked in a breath.

The eyes still had optics nerves connected, but it trailed no blood, looking more like the roots of withered plants then nerves plucked from a living person.

Jiraiya picked it up. Turned it, so that the iris was facing them. He let it sit on his palm, his face grim.

Orochimaru gave a shocked hiss, previous mirth entirely gone.

Something had happened to the eyes. The iris were a cloudy, nasty grey, looking less like bright silver and more like a horrid case of cataracts. The sclera, too, seemed affected. It was now a disgusting shade of rotting grey that was revolting just to look at.

"Is this...Senko's eyes?" Tsunade ventured finally, ever the first to break bad news.

Orochimaru plucked it from Jiraiya's palm. "I will conduct a test the moment we get back."

"With what?" was Tsunade's immediate vehement hiss as she turned on him, eyes startling bright. "Did you take a sample of her cells, too? Do you have no baseline? Is there any worse you could go?"

"She gave it with consent," the snake sage hissed back, "if you must know."

"And does not expect you to keep it all these years, and for what?"

"Hey," Jiraiya interjected, stepping between them, the spitting slug and the hissing snake, hands raised. "At least we have a means of knowing for sure those are the Ryokugan, short of searching the entire forest. Calm down, Orochimaru, and back off, Tsunade."

Both sides glared but followed suit, and the clearing was silent again.

The child's wheezing breath took that moment to let itself be known.

With a hiss Orochimaru snapped his head towards her, slipping the bottle into his sleeve.

"If we are to bring her back to the village we will seal her eyes here," he strode towards the form lying on the gground. "_Now, _Jiraiya, before she wakes."

* * *

**AN: To clarify in case the OC names are getting confusing (even though there are only two of them):**

**Senko (泉子 - literally 'fountain/spring child') is Haiko's mother and a friend of the Sannin. No, they were not on the same team. No, they were not childhood friends. They were friends that bonded through the war, and only met because Jiraiya and Orochimaru were two of the most promising sealing students in the village, aside from the distant Uzumaki clan, who got wiped out before the war started proper.**

**Haiko (灰子, literally 'ash/grey child')**** is the girl that's currently incapacitated. And the protagonist.**

**(2) haiirō [灰/grey] — is the color. the name's based off that, but people pronounced the first syllable like how they would pronounce 'yes[hai]'.**

**The worms, btw? summons.**

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**_flower_**


	3. Interlude I

**AN: ****This falls between chapter 2 and 3. Sorry to all the folks rushing here for a continuation of chapter 8... Also. FF net doesn't allow strikethroughs. Argh! It spoils the letter at the end.**

**Exactly as the title says: Interlude**

* * *

**[several weeks ago]**

**[Tsunade]**

It was a simple choice, but 9-year-old Shizune didn't seem to think so.

Dan's cousin definitely had some of his intelligence in her. Just a measly nine years of age, and the girl was able to grasp complex medical theory. If Tsunade had failed in protecting her loved ones, she can at least console herself that she raised adequate shinobi that can protect _their_ loved ones.

In thinking about her failures, Tsunade realized with a jolt that she had failed not only her younger brother and once-lover. She had failed her teammates, too.

The war might be over, but it had broken something in their team. Tsunade withdrew from the world, because a world without her loved ones was a world not worth living in.

Paranoia had pushed Orochimaru into his snake skin, making him throw himself into his experimentations and development of new techniques, each deadlier than the last, all unsuited to peacetime.

Too much bloodshed and death had pushed Jiraiya further into his obsession with women, making him throw out normal socialization and chase after anything wearing a skirt.

Recent efforts by Kushina Uzumaki had them working together on sealing experiments, and that was at least a step forwards.

But Kushina didn't have any obligation to help the two Sannin. Tsunade did. And now she was contemplating deserting the village.

Belatedly, Tsunade realized she should have been there to mend her two boys, to pick up the pieces the war had reduced them to like they had in the aftermath of Nawaki and Dan.

_Too late now,_ she thought bitterly, tears threatening to overspill onto Dan's humble grave. _All I ever do is leave a trail of acid in my path, destroying everything I hold dear_.

Maybe it _is_ best for her to leave the village, no matter what Shizune thought.

There was a soft whine from the bushes beside her.

Glancing in that direction, Tsunade did not bother to draw her weapon. This was within the village, the war was over, she was safe, and it was not as if she could defend herself adequately even if she did, given her fear of blood.

And then the whine sounded again, and between the bushes there was a flash of red.

Tsunade tensed, mind slowly going into overdrive.

Red-fur animals aren't native to Konoha.

Is it an enemy spy? Sending summons to scout wasn't unheard of. The end of the war wasn't yet officially recognized by countries like Rock and Cloud.

The bushes gave a huge shudder, and Tsunade slipped a hand into her weapons pouch.

A flash of red fur, and a fox leapt free of the bushes, shaking itself, a scroll clamped tight in its jaws.

It looked around, and with a jolt Tsunade realized what it was.

It was Satsuki, Senko's summon.

"Satsuki-san!" Tsunade called, hurrying over in her high heels. Once she reached the fox it gave her a once over, then spat the scroll into her waiting hands.

It began to clean its snout like a cat would clean its face.

"What's this?" Tsunade knelt, and upon examining the scroll was surprised to find a blood seal sealing it closed. She grimaced at the irony (iron-y), wondering if it was important enough to warrant her to bleed. She had forgotten how paranoid Senko could get.

"Do I have to use my blood?" She asked the fox, thankful that it hasn't un-summoned itself.

Satsuki stopped grooming and poked her snout over for a look.

Its whiskers twitched.

"Think so," it said. "Yep." It sat back on its hunches. "If you have trouble with drawing blood I can help," and bared its teeth.

"There would be no need," Tsunade replied, quickly. Satsuki and her sister Sasaha had been Senko's signature summons in the days of the war, and despite the foxes' lean build, they had torn apart a grown shinobi Jiraiya's size in a blink. Tsunade did not doubt the sharpness of their fangs.

Satsuki looked at her for a while longer.

"Are you going to open it?"

Tsunade hummed, reaching a hand out to scratch and rub at Satsuki's ears and chin. Satsuki gave a pleasant rumbling in its throat and padded closer for more attention.

Tsunade as prolonging the decision. She want to read Senko's message, after all the time the woman had stayed silent from them and the village, but she really was deathly afraid of blood.

* * *

**[Jiraiya]**

Sealwork made him feel like an artist. The black lines, the patterns and curves and glyphs, all required a precision unachievable without practice.

It made him feel useful, working on seals with the young Uzumaki, last of her kind from Uzushio. The end of the war had been the end of his purpose, at least for now.

The war had taken as much as it has given him.

For the first few months he had been dispatched to find Senko, who had cut all communication with the village the moment the war was announced over. But, as expected, she wasn't where the village stationed her.

Using the monsoon season in the Land of Rivers, Senko's tracks had been washed away in the monsoon rains, all scents and tracks covered with petrichor and the smell of mildew, making it impossible even for Sakumo's dogs to find a trace.

It was with a heavy heart that he returned to the village and announced her official status: MIA, possibly KIA.

After another few months of silence, Sandaime Sarutobi-sensei had a conference with the other elders. Their verdict on Senko: dishonorably discharged from service for possible desertion of her home village.

Jiraiya counted his blessings that Senko was not labeled a rogue ninja. That was one friend the war hadn't robbed him of.

One of their oldest friends, her name was never to be carved into the Memorial Stone; her corpse, if found, to never have a place in Konoha's cemetery, despite all the contributions she had made in the war. Her memory was to stop at their generation—a generation mostly wiped out by the war.

And thus Sasaha's entrance into his sealing room was a huge, huge shock.

Not bothering with formalities, the red fox jumped up to his desk, scattering brushes and ink pots left and right as she cleared a space for herself. She placed the scroll in her mouth in front of a stunned Jiraiya and said with a lolling fox grin, "Yo."

Jiraiya allowed himself half a minute of shock, then made a grab for Sasaha.

"Ooh playtime playtime!" The red fox yipped like a kit, dancing out of his reach, knocking over more bottles. "Sen-chan didn't say nothing about playtime! Just, deliver the message to Jiraiya-san," Sasaha did an impressive imitation of Senko's low voice when she got serious, "it's important."

Jiraiya laughed then, relieved that at least Senko's summons were what he remembered, and reached for the scroll.

How long has it been since Team Sarutobi played with these foxes?

And realized it was sealed with a blood seal.

"Open it open it!" Sasaha chanted, running in circles, chasing her white-tipped tail.

Jiraiya smiled, and bit his finger. As his blood dripped onto the seal on the scroll, there was a sizzling sound, and the scroll popped open.

"Aww," Sasaha's ears drooped along with her tail. "Now I have to go."

* * *

**[Orochimaru]**

If there was anything Orochimaru still remotely felt a connection to, it was his wayward teammates.

On the other hand of the spectrum, there were things of mystery that he felt irrevocably drawn to.

For example, the blue-green scroll that appeared in his work table, along with a pipe.

While it can be explained away by assuming the scroll is left by Sarutobi-sensei and the pipe as his signature, Orochimaru knew for a fact that the villagers supports their own businesses, and no scroll maker makes blue-green scrolls. The plant for the dye simply can't thrive in or around the region of Konoha. It was always red-green, red-yellow, and other combinations, but never blue-green. As for the pipe, Sarutobi-sensei was never one to leave his personal addiction anywhere but with him. In any case, Sarutobi-sensei's pipes never sported carvings this intricate and even if he did, carvings along the handle would've been smoothed together over all his years of use. It was also most definitely not white and grey.

Also, blue dye was a specialty from the Land of Rivers.

With a slight smile that accompanied the unveiling of a new technique, Orochimaru picked up the pipe, turned it over, and began to knock it softly on the wood of his table as though he was emptying it of ash.

As he had half expected, from within the pipe came a half-strangled yelp, and a white smoke drifted from within. It writhed in the air for a second, then settled into its most preferred form: a small, palm-sized fox, a snow white from snout to tail.

Pipe-fox Tō-ko.

"You!" It screeched with a voice larger than itself, "Cease this knocking at once! I am not a smoking pipe! Unhand me!"

Smile now from genuine amusement, Orochimaru placed the pipe back on the table right way up, holding his hands in surrender.

"Hello again, Tō-sama."

"Hmph," the pipe fox exhaled a cloud of chilly air. "I presume you know what to do?" It brandished its tail, creating a trail of frost through the air to the scroll.

"Yes," Orochimaru picked it up, biting his thumb nonchalantly to unseal it, "From Senko, I assume?"

The fox sniffed, pacing a short distance in the air, leaving a trail of frost in the air it covered. Orochimaru sat down at his desk, opening the scroll. While he read, he reached out a finger to play with the pipe fox.

It barked while it chased his finger through the air.

In essence, the winter aspect of the Seasonal Pipe Foxes was merely fifty years old, and very, very young in fox standards. Tō played like the kit it was, play-fighting with Orochimaru's finger.

A small smile lingered on his lips. How long has it been since Team Sarutobi played with Senko's ever-playful foxes?

Then the line of the message he was reading really registered.

_...I have a two-year-old child I'd like to entrust to you and the village…._

Senko has a child?

Orochimaru's mind whirred into action.

Senko left during the last stages of the war, right after Dan's unfortunate demise. If Orochimaru's memories served him correctly, it was after Senko had a heated fight with Tsunade, the exact subject forgotten. Until the war ended, Senko had sent the village monthly reports of her whereabouts and actions, until the official announcement of the end of the war. If he counted backwards two years and give or take eight to six months, the time of gestation would be an approximate fit, along with the time she stopped sending reports. Was the child the reason?

He turned to Tō.

"If I may inquire, Tō-sama, when and where and what were the circumstances in which Senko gave you this scroll?"

The miniature fox paused in its air-frolicking and tilted its head to think. "Sasaha passed it to me in the Cave. I didn't see Sen-chan personally."

"Sasaha?"

"Sen-chan gave messages similar to yours to Satsuki-chan and Sasaha-chan. To whom I don't know, but there were three messages," the fox rolled over in midair, kicking its legs upwards, actions in direct contrast to its mature tone of voice. Frost spewed upwards towards the vents. "Shū-nee was supposed to deliver this, but she was busy with the name-list. Shun-chan might know more, but the only foxes that Sen-chan has been summoning recently at all are Yasue and Yasuji. Not that you can reach them."

"Did she?" Orochimaru muttered, turning back to the scroll.

The entire letter, when he finished reading, struck him as strange. Senko was never a vague person, her storytelling an exception. And why couldn't Senko deliver the child to the village? She was only stripped of her status as top tier shinobi, not banished from the village altogether. The worst she would face once she returned to the village was a lifetime house arrest and some community service, not an execution.

He tapped his fingers on the table.

"Can I go? I made a promise to Ka-nii to play with Shun-chan," Tō skipped around his head, making his ears sting with cold. Then it straightened in the air, attempting to look formal. "My work here is done."

Orochimaru nodded, still weighing the options of going versus not going. His experiments were ongoing, but he supposed if he left for a week he could trust the assistants here to take care of things. One week won't be too long, and he _did _want to stretch his muscles. The way Senko phrased it, she did seem to be expecting some kind of conflict…that could be why she wouldn't deliver the child to the village gates.

The pipe fox dissolved into mist, slipping back into the pipe, then puffed away in a cloud of smoke.

Barely a minute passed, and there was a hammering on his door.

"Orochi-teme!" Jiraiya's voice carried clear and loud across the wooden door. "Open up!"

Orochimaru ignored it, trying to visualize all the scenarios that might play out. They're too late — the people chasing Senko, likely for her eyes, gets to the mother-daughter dual first; they're too early — they have to leave before Senko gets there; they're just on time — happy ending…and on and on and on his mind spun.

But Jiraiya was insistent. Soon, his knocks weren't just knocks. They were attempts to break down the door.

Orochimaru sighed, and got up to open the door.

Jiraiya leapt inside the minute he could fit through the doorway, and slammed the door shut behind him. One hand gripped Senko's open scroll, the other grabbed his collar and hauled him to the back of the room.

"Are you going to go?" Jiraiya asked urgently, waving the scroll in his hand. "Senko didn't state a specific date or time or anything, but I figured that she must have dropped hints within the letter itself and that she figured you'd figure that she figured that you'd figure out the hints whatever they are and go at the right time!" He sucked in a huge breath. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Orochimaru slapped the hand away and straightened his collar. He cleared his throat and tried to regain some dignity.

"Perhaps."

* * *

_Hello again, old friend. How are you doing?_

_This letter has been sent to the other two, as well. I wouldn't leave any of you out, not for my life. _

_Please discuss nothing of the contents of the letter to anyone besides the other two, not even Sarutobi-sensei._

_I have a two-year-old child that I'd like to entrust to your care, be it within the village or out. I believe she would be safer with you, as would my bloodline._

_I do not know the identity of her father, and you do not need to pry. I doubt it would affect a child such as her._

_I know this might be asking too much, since we haven't spoken in years, but could you please make a trip to the safe-house sometime later this month? I'm not sure how long it would take my foxes to deliver this to you, they're not the most willing of couriers, but I trust it to be within the week._

_Do not come looking for me through the tracks of my foxes. I did not summon them near the cottage._

_I would drop Haiko off at the safe-house in a few weeks. Think two or three. I'm not sure. Sasaha or Satsuki might be able to tell you more on that, but I have high doubts. Hopefully I can get the child safely there, and there she'll wait for you. She looks exactly like me, so it won't be hard to spot her. Once there you can ask her for my summoning scroll. She'll have it, and that should be proof enough that she's mine._

_Please remember her name. I don't think she reacts to anything else._

_One of the villages has started to gather kekkei genkai. There have already been three tries in the night, but I disposed of them. I do not know which village they are from—the hunters did not bear the insignia of any village. Could be mercenaries. Could be village ninja. So please, tell no one. I estimate the next attempt to be sometime at the arrival of spring here in River, on the last day of winter based on the pattern, but one can never be sure._

_Haiko knows nothing, and do not tell her, even if she asks directly. She's very smart, but please, tell her absolutely nothing of this letter._

_Make sure Haiko becomes a shinobi so that she knows how to defend herself. When she becomes a shinobi, please help her unseal my summoning contract and sign her up. Before then, help keep the contract scroll safe._

_When I see you again, I will explain everything. And no stories this time. I promise._

_And if I don't see you again, well, bad luck, friends~!_

_Much, much love,_

_Senko_

* * *

**AN: There would be more such Interludes to come~**

**Does the previous chapters make more sense now? As usual, if you saw any mistakes or would like to clarify any facts or discuss or give criticism don't hesitate to tell me.**

**On the other hand, if you enjoyed it, please review~ If you think she's overpowered and has ideas how to nerf her, or think she's fine but just needs an explanation, drop a review!**

**If you want to see the full letter with it's strikethroughs (I hope you do) it's here, just remove the blanks:**

**rising-snow . tumblr / post / 138670644938 / color-of-grey-senkos-letter**

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_**flower**_


	4. III

**AN: Nearly 80 reviews! You guys have really outdone yourselves, and I haven't even updated the story ****_or _finish**** the overhaul I was promising! And this is just the revamped version of chapter ****_3_****.**

**The comments and encouragement and shameless urging did spur me to actually do some writing this holiday. Expect more to come!**

* * *

**[First Person - Haiko]**

There was a clinically repeating beeping, insistent and annoying.

I rolled over, a groan already at my lips, ready to sweep the offending alarm off the table and preferably to pieces, and felt a painful pull in the crook of my elbow.

I jerked awake, heart hammering.

The ceiling, a wide expanse of white-washed cement, blinked at me.

I turned my head, and saw an off-white pole rooted beside the bed. It supported an IV drip which led into my elbow, the needle secured in its position by tape. My previous violent movement had given it a nasty jerk, but fortunately nothing changed much in the bigger picture. The needle was still in, the IV was still dripping, there was no more pain in my elbow.

The beeping was coming from another machine that had wires hooked onto pads on my chest. I figured it measured something, and left it at that.

Two frights settled, I began to look around.

The room was quite spacious. In the rectangular room, the bed sat squarely in the middle, headboard against the wall. To my left, a door several shades darker than the rest of the room stood near the wall at my feet. To my right, a window was mounted several inches above the height of the bed I was in. It was curtained with a white, slightly-brocaded piece of cloth that fluttered slightly in an even slighter draft.

There wasn't a bedside table beside the IV, just another off-white piece of hospital furniture: a hard-backed visiting chair.

The chair was situated at an angle that caught the sunlight, if any, through the window.

But most importantly, not a speck of green was to be seen in this sterile hospital room.

I was starting to suspect something's wrong when the door clicked open.

I tilted my head to look and heard a crick in my neck pop.

The woman in the doorway was a nurse, wearing a uniform that sported a splash of flowers.

I saw every single one of them, in full color.

It felt like the discovery of Technicolor. Suddenly everything was colored, splashed with every shade film could provide: red flowers, blue flowers, small yellow flowers and floating green vines; my flesh-colored arm, a contrast against white sheets; the peeling off-white paint of the chair and the brown wood underneath; the rich golden sunlight slanting onto the chair; the railings of the bed, previously over-looked, sporting red-brown flecks of rust.

Outside the window, a glimpse of the sky: robin's egg blue.

Do I still remember what a robin's egg looked like?

A cool hand rested on my forehead, and I was startled to find the nurse taking my temperature.

"Hello," she said pleasantly, making a note in her clipboard, "it's good to see you're awake."

I worked my mouth, but it was extremely dry.

She patted me lightly on the head and said, "This is a bit of a welcome surprise, so we'll have to alert the doctors in charge, okay?"

I nodded, and then tugged on the wires linking me to the beeping machine, but she had already stepped out of the room.

Judging by the amount of light coming from outside the window, it was early morning, so I tried to make myself as comfortable as possible.

I was asleep before I realized it.

* * *

"Haiko!"

The bang of the door gave me a fright and jerked me awake the second time. My vision was filled by a flurry of white and red.

"Are you okay? How are you feeling? Can you see? Can you hear? What—that needle in her arm is _gigantic_—"

There was a crash and a bang, and at the side of my bed stood an extremely pretty lady with an amazing rack, dressed in a pale blue modified yukata with green shorts, her arm still raised in a throwing motion.

She was the one who had pulled the blabbering man off me.

The long blond hair split in pigtails seemed to be fizzing down, and the disapproving frown she had towards the man melted to a sisterly smile when she turned to me.

"Hello, Haiko-chan," she said, ignoring the man she had just thrown with no apparent exertion into the wall, "I'm Tsunade, the lead doctor in charge of you, and I'm here for a check-up, okay?"

Tsunade?

I racked my brain for a reason that name was so familiar, and nodded.

While she worked, first checking the machine then taking my pulse, the man picked himself up and settled in the chair. He sagged in it, and suddenly I could picture this same man sitting in it all those times, patiently waiting for me to wake up.

I wasn't sure whether I was grateful or creeped out.

Tsunade turned her attention to my IV, then tutted noisily.

The man scratched his neck.

I looked at her warily.

Tsunade prodded at it, then took my arm and bent it gently.

A shock of pain ran through the crook of my elbow where the IV needle was inserted, and I flinched, biting my lip.

"Ach," she said, frowning. "What d'ya do, kiddo? I'm gonna have to re-insert this now."

The man lounged in his chair.

"It's going to hurt," I said, gnawing on my lip nervously, causing Tsunade to look up with surprise. "No?"

"No," was her initial knee-jerk reply, but at my shrewd gaze she hurriedly corrected herself. "Yes. Sorry. It's going to hurt, yes. But only the part where I insert the needle, so don't worry. Much."

With fine nails she began to scrape at the tape holding the needle in place.

The needle itself was certainly bigger than the normal back-of-the-hand IV needles I experienced in my past. This one was stark blue with a slivery needle head, but there was a faint sheen of blood over the needle, and I swallowed.

Tsunade crumbled up the tape and dumped them on the floor, then with a gauze swab ready in her other hand, in one swift motion, pulled out the needle and allowed pressure.

"Can the tests be carried out in tandem?" The man asked, addressing Tsunade.

"What?" She replied absently while she bent my elbow and told me to hold it in place for five minutes. "Oh sure. I'll get your equipment too, then."

The man nodded, and with a last smile at me, Tsunade whisked out of the room, pigtails trailing.

I took the time to study the man.

He was writing in a notebook, with a tiny pencil that was smaller than his palm. By and by, he would purse his lips and mutter soundlessly to himself.

He had spiky white hair that he pulled back in a ponytail, coal black eyes, and two streaks of red that runs down his cheeks, stopping just above his chin. His nose sported a small wart that didn't yet distract from his looks.

We stayed in silence until Tsunade returned.

She came with several clear packets and two boards, which she passed to the man.

Placing two of the packets on the bed, which I saw to be IV drip packets, she moved to the other side of the bed and took the arm that was free of a gauze.

I gulped.

A professional air seemed to settle over Tsunade, and as she snapped on latex gloves I turned away.

It was how I had always treated injections, and how I shall treat them.

The man seemed to have been thinking the same thing, because he was on the original side of the bed, armed with boards and a flashlight.

For a moment I forgot about Tsunade on my right.

I must have looked questioning enough, because the man held out one of the boards to me.

I felt the bite of the rubber band that Tsunade tied around my arm, and the coolness of the alcohol wipe.

"Fist your hand," Tsunade tapped my wrist; I did as I was told.

The man waved the board at me, and I saw, to my interest, that it was colorful.

"This is to test how many colors you can see and whether it's primary or secondary," he said. Then he raised an eyebrow.

"Do you know what I'm talking about?"

Now.

I was taught, and lived, twenty or so years in English, which was, no matter how you look at it, not this chopped, angular language. My rebirth did not install my mind with an automatic translator, which initially spelt all kinds of hell.

Luckily, I was a fast learner, and managed. Mother picked up on it too, this inability to communicate to my liking. She very kindly used all kinds of words in my vicinity and waited patiently for me to pick it up.

She even managed to find me a dictionary, sometime before the flight, but we had to leave it back at cottage...which meant it went up in flames, along with everything else.

On the subject of colors, Mother did teach me the words relating to them.

As in, she would point at the dresser and tell me that the colors of that—the _shade_, if you will, because she was aware I saw things in shades—is different from the color of the vanity in the bedroom, or that the color of the bamboo outside is different from that of the sky.

The only colors she named was green and blue, "_midori_" and "_aoi_", to the bamboo and the sky

Occasionally she would mention other words, things that I don't see but know, because I have something to fall back on, "_shiiro_", to indicate a daisy blooming in our backyard; "_kuro_", to indicate ink; "_kiiro_", another flower; "_murasaki_", foxgloves.

I guessed at their meanings, but most times couldn't place them.

I suspect that color blind individuals in the old world knew of colors. How could they not?

They would look at the sky, know that it's blue, but see grey. They would see a shaded steak through the sky and guess that it's a rainbow. They would look at a friend's prom dress and know, from conversation, that it's a baby pink, but only see grey.

A peculiar kind of existence, and I can vouch for it.

I nodded.

His eyebrow raised a little, but he passed me the first board.

On it was a circle made up of circles of different sizes. I recognized it as one of those boards optometrists give to patients on their first day.

Within the field of colored bubbles (different shades of green), there was a number in orange bubbles.

"27," I said, handing it back.

"I'm Jiraiya, by the way," said the man, taking the board, and at the same time there was a stab of pain and something cool slid into my arm.

I yelped.

"Aish," said Tsunade, "almost done."

"Hey now," Jiraiya waved another board, colored purple and blue, "attention to me~"

"12!" I said, immediately, eyes fixed on the metal tube disappearing under my skin.

The next board stuck in my face was yellow and white.

"9!"

Red and purple.

"18!"

Aqua and green and light orange.

I took a pause, when I didn't immediately see a number.

Aha! There it is.

"45," I said, feeling proud.

"Done!" said Tsunade, straightening.

Surprised, I looked at my arm and saw there the IV tube, attached to the plastic blue base of the needle which was fully embedded in my arm.

Tsunade crumpled the wrappings, then checked the IV.

"So?" she turned to Jiraiya.

He passed me the last board he has. This one was grey, turquoise, and black.

I squinted.

"63."

"All clear!" he declared, handing the boards to Tsunade. "Vision is perfect."

Tsunade smiled at me. "We'll have to leave now, but we'll be back. Take some rest while you're at it."

As they exited the room, Jiraiya waved cheerily.

* * *

The next week passed in a flash, Tsunade and Jiraiya frequently visited, and two more people as well, on separate occasions.

The first was a pale, long-haired man with yellow eyes. He introduced himself as Orochimaru, and gave me eyesight tests. Turns out I have 20/20 vision. Sometimes he came together with Jiraiya, and whenever they did, there was always an effort to catch my eye.

I didn't know why, and didn't know how to bring it up without being rude. I didn't want the only people who knew me here to be angry at me.

The second was an old man with greying beard and hair and face full of laugh lines. He visited only once, and on that occasion blew smoke all over the room. (The nurses scolded him, did a funny hand shape, and a gust of wind swirled through the room, blowing the smoke out of the window. My eyes prickled, and not from the smoke.)

He asked me simple questions, like "how are you?" and "how do you feel?".

He introduced himself as "Sarutobi Hiruzen" and looked as though he expected me to recognize it. I did, vaguely, but couldn't pin it down. He looked surprised that I didn't recognize it, and after that, he left quickly.

But for the recent few days, none of them had shown up.

It all seemed as far away from the happenings in the clearing as realistically possible. Especially with my eyesight returned to 'normal', it seems as though the first two years never happened.

There was nothing on me that suggested I was anywhere but in the hospital. My clothes, my sandals, the backpack Mother left me, the scraps and cuts on my limbs, they were all gone.

Not helping was the fact that, like any normal child, the memories of Mother and the cottage and the peaceful days beside the bamboo forest was fading, and fading fast.

Even now I forgot the designs on our vanity, forgot the way Mother does up her hair, forgot what vegetables were growing in the backyard. I forgot how many brushes Mother owned, and the names of tools in Mother's drawing kit.

Little details like that, but in the long run, what's important.

I didn't even have confirmation of Mother's status. I know what I saw and heard back at the clearing, but time changes things. Was she alive, discovered, and in a similar room? Was she dead, six feet under? Was she alive, still out there, searching for me around the metal house? Was she dead in a ditch somewhere, hunted down and killed like a rabbit, or shot down from the trees?

* * *

In the second week of my hospitalization, the nurses took away my IV.

The next day, I was given proper clothes (not the aqua hospital gown) and allowed to go out into the back garden.

I didn't.

At the beginning of the third week, a man visited me.

The announcement was simple: a nurse opening my door during lunchtime. I was finished, and sipping at the fruit juice.

"Haiko-chan, there's a man to see you," she said, as she cleared away the food. "He'll come in a moment."

I smiled at her.

A few seconds later, the man in question stepped into the room.

He looked to be in his forties, with long, spiky hair tied in a ponytail, kind black eyes, and laugh lines. He wore a flak jacket and blue undershirt, complete with a headband that held a metal plate with the insignia I've been seeing on the nurses' caps. A little swirl, with a tail and a tip, that jogged my memory.

He had a white sleeve with red flares. On his other, blue, sleeve, there was a red swirl.

"Hello," he said, and his voice was deep and warm. "You're Haiko?"

I nodded.

"I'm here to sign your release papers," he said amiably, sitting down in the chair.

I blinked.

"You can say something, you know," he smiled, bending forwards to rest his elbows on his knees.

When I still remained silent, he chuckled.

"I didn't know Senko-san, but I've heard you're her splitting image. Well. Let's start over, shall we? I'm Hatake Sakumo. It's a pleasure to meet you, Haiko-san."

Immediately, I took a liking to him.

Did any of the previous people introduce themselves properly? Oh no. It's all "I'm _x_ and she/he's _y_ and I'll have to start with I have to do and talk to you later".

I inclined my head. "It's a pleasure to meet you too, sir."

"Polite!" he laughed, just as a nurse walked in with a stack of papers. "Truth be told, I was going to adopt you, since none of the Sannin have the liberty to, or will admit to, adoption," he winked at me, as though the comment was supposed to be an insinuation. If it was, I didn't catch it.

Hang on. He was _going _to? Meaning he _isn't_, now?

_Adoption?_

He took the papers, flipped to a page, flourished the pen, and passed it back. The nurse bowed and left the room.

"Alright! Officially, you're at Nonō-san's orphanage, since it'll be unfair to other orphans if I pick you up straight out of hospital. I'll walk you there later this evening. See you then, Haiko-san," he stood from the chair.

"Just like that?" I blurted, and immediately bit my lip, regretting it.

"Hmm?" he paused.

I was sitting up on the bed, but still I barely came up to his waist.

"…I mean, if you're worried about unfair treatment, isn't it better instead to…adopt me straight out of the hospital, so that other children won't even know?" I asked, worrying my lower lip. "Unless adoption is an official announcement sort of thing."

He looked down at me for a while, then chuckled. He liked to laugh, I realized.

"Well, I could pull a few strings if you really don't want to go to an orphanage, but really the only other child at home is my son, and he isn't the most sociable or amiable. It's really better if you experience other children before him," he explained, resting a hand on the bed railings. His hand was half-gloved, but even without comparison I knew it dwarfed mine in size.

I frowned. I didn't have the best view of orphanages from prior experiences, and I really didn't want to go back, if the orphanage here is anyway like the ones in my…past life.

How hard can one unsociable son be?

I resolutely shook my head. "No orphanages, please, sir."

He tilted his head, considering.

"…How about this," he finally said, "I arrange that you be there for a week. Only a week. Then I'll come get you."

I gnawed on the lip, wondering if I should pull out the childish card. Then again, my old friends did say I had a knack for it to _not_ work, so, maybe not.

"You will need the experience, really, trust me," he said, hurriedly. "Kakashi, that is, my son, really isn't sociable. Really, really isn't."

He watched me for a reaction, and I could only give him a nod, because at the name 'Kakashi', my mind had gone into overdrive.

Plus a mild headache, but mild headache is mild.

_Kakashi?_

As the man left with several glances back to me, in my minds eye there appeared a portrait.

Of a silver-haired man, face three-quaters covered, bright orange book in a gloved hand as the other rested in his pocket, walking with a slouch around a village that had it's leaders' heads carved in a mountain.

Holy crap.

_Naruto?_

Three nurses came in then, to give me a last check up before discharging me.

Apparently the condition I was admitted into hospital with was a long-term one, and will have adverse effects if not treated correctly, but whenever I asked, the nurses smiled and made up things like malnutrition or respiratory problems, and I know those terms, because I requested Orochimaru to get me a dictionary and on the second time he came, made him sit and teach me.

It's bullshittery if I've ever heard it, because I know Mother fed me well.

I didn't feel anything wrong after the first week, and it's free treatment, so I went along with it.

But _Naruto_? You've got to be kidding me.

Reincarnation was practically forced down my throat, but there's no way I could be in a piece of fiction. Can I?

I tried to imagine myself as an ink figure, and failed, because at this point I'm pretty sure I didn't look like how I remembered. There isn't a mirror here, and the washroom that came with my ward didn't have one.

The fact that I don't know my own face sunk in just as the nurses left.

And then the man's name clicked.

Hatake Sakumo, White Fang of the Leaf.

Committed seppuku when he returned from a failed mission.

I'm being adopted by a dead man.

HOLY crap.

* * *

The nurses apparently needed the whole evening to get things sorted out, because the sun was setting, a glorious shade of gold, when Sakumo appeared again, this time in casual clothes, to get me.

It was my first time out of the hospital, and I've never seen a clearer sky.

Guess pre-industrial society has its perks. But strangely enough, there were circuit lines looped around the buildings I could see, and the light in my hospital room was definitely not a tungsten bulb. LED?

_Naruto _was not my main obsession. Those lied with historical films, games, and shows. _Naruto _was a semi-historical show, Katie tried to convince me, but as I shot back at her, so is _One Piece_, so is _Bleach_, if she wanted to go into creative influences. Just about any anime that she watched had Shinto influences and references in them, and besides if I wanted Japanese culture animes, there were loads that I've forgotten the names to, but they were definitely better at portraying Japanese culture than a fantasy ninja show that can't decide on its overarching theme. (Is it hard work? Or lineage?)

That said, it wasn't as if I didn't know about them. It was just that as I grew, I grew out of it. I once knew about it's plot and characters like the back of my hand, except that the series went spiraling into a zone I didn't like. The creator's lore was falling apart, the main theme of the story had warped to next-power-up-to-defeat-the-bigbad instead of working-hard-to-get-somewhere, and I dropped it.

As Sakumo led me down the streets of the village (_Konohagakure, the village hidden in the leaves_), I cursed that I never paid more attention to it. All I had to go by here was vague recollections of the two season's episodes and heated discussions about the lore and the audacity of the creator's ability to hype the tension until it wasn't just frayed, but broken.

And it's been several years and half a childhood since then.

How was I to remember pre-series details?

The road we were on was a well-worn dirt path that branched from the main road and snaked through a small patch of trees where it emerged into a clear space with a homely-looking longhouse.

I placed identity crisis out of my mind for a while. I can only hope that happenings and occasions would jog my memories.

A woman was standing outside the front door, evidently as welcome.

She was kind-faced, with pretty hair that framed her face nicely. She wore a white apron over a black robe, a white coif that didn't do much to cover her hair, and a pair of round Harry Potter glasses on her nose. Her eyes were bright green. Sakumo conversed with her in a hushed voice for a little when we reached.

Then he ruffled my hair.

"See you in a week, Haiko-san," said he, then turned and made for the trees.

When he disappeared into the trees, the nun bent and smiled warmly at me, "Hello. My name is Yakushi Nonō. You can call me Mother. You'll be living in my orphanage for a little while, okay?"

I nodded unhappily, ignoring the hand she extended to me, not planning to call her Mother at all.

Stepping reluctantly through the orphanage doors, I frowned a little. The last time I was admitted to an orphanage, I fought tooth and nail to get out.

This time wasn't going to be similar, since I already had a ticket out, but orphanages still didn't appeal to me.

* * *

**AN: I normally don't support the author giving the readers clues straight up because that spoils the atmosphere, but in this case I want to say something, just to be clear. The Sannin, more specifically Jiraiya and Orochimaru, have both seriously contemplated adopting Haiko. The former was a genuine attachment, but for both it was survivor's guilt for Senko. Not Tsunade, because she will not trust herself not to muck things up again.**

**Enjoy~ and please read and review. **

**And, really, thank you for being so patient!**

* * *

**_flower_**


	5. IV

**AN: Happy Lunar New Year to those who matters! New Year lasts for 15 days, so I'm not late~! Anyway, 祝大家恭喜发财，万事如意，猴年大吉！To those who can't read Mandarin, I wish you a happy new year, lots of prosperity, luck, and happiness!**

**Story's still undergoing overhaul, guys, but by the rate I'm going, chapter 5 onwards is going to be completely new material. Should I take down the 'old' chapters 6-8? It's pretty jarring to go from nice-style to bad-style writing, I'm sure. Anyway. Here's one! Enjoy~!**

**Disclaimer: must I? have you seen the flowers I draw? they're like mudcakes! how can ****_Naruto_**** belong to me?**

* * *

My room in the orphanage was pre-arranged, and the first thing I saw was the black backpack, out of sync with the otherwise pale color scheme.

Mother's black backpack.

It leaned rather inconspicuously at the low table, but it was the first thing I rushed to anyway.

Checking through the items, I breathed easier when they were all there, almost as if I had left them not a month ago but a few days: the scrolls, the extra set of clothes (folded neatly), the brushes, the two small black knives.

Except the food rations, of course, they'd have rotted by now. Those were absent from the pack.

It was comforting, to find something that truly belonged to me, and for a few seconds I sat beside the bag, breathing.

Nonō stood at the doorway, a quiet presence.

"It was placed here the moment you were admitted into the hospital," she offered, "by Jiraiya-sama."

I turned. Maybe this lady could give me the answers no one will.

"Nonō-san, do you know how long I was in the hospital?" I asked, as politely as I could, shifting to sit cross-legged in front of the table.

I knew only about _after_ I woke. No one told me how long I was _out_. Surely, the whole duration was recorded in the hospital files?

Nonō tapped a finger on her lips. "I'm not very clear, but it seems to be close to a month. I heard your condition was severe."

So a week, then. Give or take a few days.

"What condition?"

"…I don't know. The hospital didn't tell me."

Do they ever, that's the question.

Out of the corner of my eye I surveyed the room. It sported a window above a single bed to the left of the door and a small bedside table, where a set of pajamas sat folded neatly. The little low desk was behind me, directly in front of the door, the kind that had the person kneel. To the right of the door, there was a low bookshelf two shelves high, filled with two books and a heap of five scrolls.

A rather homely room.

"Shall I show you the way to the communal bathroom?" Nonō said, and a glance outside showed the last rays of the sun dimming across the sky.

I got up and followed her.

* * *

The bathroom was like everything else — wooden.

The shower was wooden, the floor was polished wood. The whole place was like a log-house, or a ship.

Mentally I imagined children decked out in ship's boy outfits, skinning their knees scrubbing the wooden floor.

I gave myself a slight shake.

Most importantly, perhaps, everything was child-sized, from the stools to the soap handles to the height of the sink, and everything was present except a mirror.

Closer inspection revealed a little hole in the wall which would have allowed me to look into the mirror, had it been hanging in that position.

Could the staff have removed it for cleaning?

Either that, or the world is conspiring against me.

Hmm.

* * *

The other kids didn't take to me, immediately or otherwise, not that I expected them to.

I suppose it was self-fulfilling, given the way I gave them the cold shoulder the last few days.

And how could bullies, bred as they were in an environment where the children commonly ratio adults a six to one, pass up such a ripe opportunity?

They struck at lunch the day after.

It started like any other confrontation, which I suspected was an ingrained, genetic formula.

The ringleader's voice was pitched low, but on a boy a solid decade away from adolescence the effort was comical instead of hair-raising.

"Oi, you!" he yelled, thumping the butt of the spoon in his hand on the wooden tabletop as I passed, no doubt _not_ leaving an impression. (Ha! pun.)

There was the scrape of a chair across wooden flooring, a smattering of steps, and the little corner where I've retreated to was suddenly fenced in by three kids.

Their shadow fell over me, and I glanced up with disinterested eyes.

In the middle was the clear leader of their three-man team, two heads taller than the rest. He had blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and brown curls that clung to his slightly chubby face, but the small mouth was set in an ugly snarl that seemed more a disfiguration than an expression.

"Hello, newbie, I saw you doing something I don't like," snarled the leader.

Beside him, his lackeys tried to look intimidating.

I leveled him with a look, unimpressed, then turned to my food.

"Hey," he said, and I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Rather surprised at their civility, I turned and—

Pain exploded across my face, sending yellow stars popping in my vision. I rocked back, hit the table, then tumbled off the bench in an ungainly heap.

Something metallic trickled into my mouth.

Above, the boy cackled joyfully.

"Showed her who's boss! Showed her! Showed her!"

I blinked stars out of my eyes and felt for my nose.

Broken, like a twig. My hand came away in a startlingly dark shade of red.

There was shouting going on in the background from the matrons and cries of shock from the other children, muted by insignificance.

The boy was drawing back his fist for another punch with disturbing relish on his face and I automatically drew my arms up for what meagre protection they could offer.

From between my fingers, I watched the fist descend. (Distantly, I noticed he was holding his fist with his thumb tucked in, and I felt pity for him. Does he know it could break his thumb?)

It never hit.

In the split second that took for the punch to swing, something inky and empty rose in my chest. My vision flickered: I saw the green tendrils in the air (which made an appearance together with the absence of environmental color) swirl into a shimmering, translucent wall in front of me just in time for the boy's fist to smash into it.

Next thing I knew?

There was a sharp shattering sound; it was as though someone took to stabbing my eyes repeatedly, the pain was so great; the boy was screaming, his middle finger a bloody mess of bone and cartridge, his thumb crooked inwards at an unnatural angle, the rest of his hand rapidly swelling to an alarming shade of puce; the matrons were shrieking and the other children screaming and crying.

There was a particularly vicious stab in my left eye, the pain of which lanced straight to my head. I hissed, eyes burning, then everything was black.

* * *

"—much. How could it happen?"

"Not inconceivable. Merely an underestimation on our part, easily rectified."

"It's lives at stake here, Orochi, don't treat this like one of your pet projects—"

"Don't be ridiculous. What can she possibly d—"

Something cold slips over my face, curling and settling across my brow, brushing over my burning eyes.

I shifted, sighed, and fell back into unconsciousness, this time to cooler dreams.

* * *

"—san. Haiko-san?"

I blinked.

My world was in color again.

Someone was tapping lightly on my cheek.

I turned to look.

It was a lady, with close-cropped black hair and slanted black eyes. Her round face had a small, worried smile, which grew as I regarded her.

"You're awake! How do you feel?"

I worked my jaw; blinked once more; wriggled my fingers and toes.

All seemed to be in order.

I opened my mouth to speak, and all that came out was a rasp.

The lady's expression was shifting into alarm.

I tried again, and managed a croak.

"...Thirsty."

Her expression smoothed out, and with visible relief she reached for the glass of water on the small bedside table.

"In theory you were supposed to rest a bit longer, let the seal settle, or so Orochimaru-sama tells me," she said, allowing me a couple of sips before confiscating the glass, "but your presence has been requested by the Hokage himself for the funeral, so—"

She sighed.

Hokage?

Wait. Shit?

What funeral? What's going on?

(Seal?)

I frowned heavily, hoping she gets my unvocalized questions.

She laughed, a sad sound, and reached over to smooth out my brow. (In the meantime I realized she was not so much older — a very young lady, barely out of her teens. It was the harried face that made her seem older than her years.)

"No one told you, did they?" she sighed, gaining a faraway look in her eyes as she stroked my hair. "They found your mother's remains, it seems. They're holding a funeral this evening. The weather's going to be a nice drizzle, I heard."

* * *

Later on after my health had been fussed over and confirmed, she introduced herself as Ohara Shizune, Tsunade's current, and only, disciple. ("Call me onee-san!" she giggled. "I've never had a little sister before!")

She's twelve, she told me, and I'm three, and my birthday's June the twenty-eighth, which makes me three months older than my step-brother, whose birthday was in September. She's also going to leave the village soon, studying abroad with Tsunade to become a medic-nin (_never to return_), and I should be a shinobi too, because that's what my mother was, and my mother was a powerful kunoichi, or so everyone's saying, and I have inherited the bloodline, and therefore I'm surely going to be a great shinobi and since I'm going into the Hatake clan anyway, why waste resources?

I'm a village citizen now, she said, dressing me in a yukata the darkest shade of grey and an obi of white, Sakumo-sama did the paperwork last weekend. (? what day is it now, then?)

She told me the month: July; she told me the day: the thirty-first; she told me the time: four-twenty-four in the afternoon; she told me the year: 103 from the founding of the villages; she told me the day of the week: Thursday, but as most of the population don't work Monday-Friday only the medics really take note of the days of the week, for their appointments.

She was intensively loquacious, once she got past my silence.

She's lost her favorite uncle in the Second War (_Katō Dan_), she told me, brushing my hair and plaiting the end with a grey hair tie, and her entire family (who weren't much, she laughed wistfully, only a mother and a father) to a Rock ambush, so she understands, a little, of what I must be feeling now.

...

What _am_ I feeling now?

A queer sort of jet-lag, I suppose, because yet again, I have lost track of how long I spent unconscious. Having the current day and time is all good and well, but without a reference, what am I to do with it?

Incredulity, too, I think. This world is so young.

A warm hand cupped my cheek.

Shizune had moved in front of me, kneeling at eye level.

"Are you sad?" Shizune asked carefully as she brushed a slightly calloused thumb under my eye.

Sad? Perhaps. I dislike the term. I lost my favorite pencil, I'm sad. I moved house, I'm sad. Someone trod on my hamster, I'm sad. The world ended, I'm sad. My mother died, I'm sad.

But the concern in her eyes was absolutely genuine and she had been nothing but kind to me during the time we've met, so I gave her a little smile and tried to make it real, make it mean something.

I don't think it worked.

"When is Sakumo-sama coming to get me?" I asked, switching tracks.

She sighed and began to dust me off.

"He's extremely busy at the moment, but he'll make it to the funeral. Oh!" She jumped up, ran to the bedside table, snatched up a small glittering object that had hitherto escaped my notice, and came back. "Jiraiya-sama left this, I was supposed to give it to you."

She held out her hand to me, and as I peered to look, the silvery object sitting in the middle of her palm caught the late afternoon sun and winked at me.

It was a brooch: a medium-sized forest-green gem sat in the middle, framed on both sides by black and silver willowy lines.

I picked it up and held it up to the window, surprised to find it extremely light. (A gift? or an heirloom?)

It's an eye, I realized, a green eye.

Something prickled in mine.

"It's your mother's," Shizune said softly, gently taking the brooch from me and using it to pin up my fringe. "This was left in her quarters the day she disappeared."

I spun around to face her. (Heirloom, then.)

"Disappeared?" I echoed, inwardly cringing at how high my voice was. "I didn't know about that, no one told me anything! Why doesn't anyone tell me anything? She's _my_ mother!"

Shizune's eyes were wide and startled.

It was my longest sentence yet.

For once, Shizune didn't have an answer.

Strangely incentivized, I turned on the spot and pointed to the bed, where there were only sheets and dust bunnies.

"Where's the backpack? Where's _Mother's_ backpack? Where's the stuff she gave me, where's the things that belonged to her?"

I turned back to Shizune, surprised to find myself glaring, to discover a tightness in my throat.

"Where's the clothes she dressed me in? Where's the clothes she prepared for me? What are these _rags _I'm wearing?"

Despite the comfortably warm afternoon air circulating in the room, I suddenly felt cold.

"Why'd she leave me alone?"

My voice was very small, and for the first time I fully comprehended how small I was, as a child.

How insignificant.

A laughter that tapered into cackling echoed in my mind, and Mother's memory danced a convincing impression of a man who stuck his finger into an electric socket. Her hair flew everywhere, some strands whacking me in the face, and she giggled, pulling me into her crazy jig by the arms.

I touched the brooch.

It was cold and hard.

I retracted my hand.

Shizune dropped to her knees with a pained expression, drawing me into a tight hug, whispering comforts, stroking my hair.

I cried into her shoulder, silently, for the mother I left behind and for the mother I'll never get to know.

We stayed that way for some time, and after a while my shivering stopped, my sobs subsided.

Shizune drew back, searching my face, a small worried crease on her brow.

"Yeah," I said, with a small sniff, "I'm a little sad, Shizune-onee-san."

She laughed, this time a relieved exhalation, and ruffled the top of my hair.

"Now I have to change my outfit! You sure know how to bottle it up."

"Not my fault," I pouted, rubbing my eyes, "no one tells me anything. Do they think I don't register what's going on?"

"I think you're thinking too much," Shizune smiled as she walked out of the room, "Be right back."

* * *

It was as though something was resolved between us. After Shizune returned, I was more open to conversation and she was not so gratuitously energetic with her replies. She shifted the brooch to sit atop my braid, because my eyes "don't match" its colors. She also promised to get me a mirror as soon as she can.

We left the orphanage (which I apparently am still staying at) under a reddening sky. Shizune chose for me the forest paths, and I smiled to see the enthusiastic teenager in her surface as she took repeated detours, showing me different types of trees and plants and explaining their medicinal properties and the value of their leaves. It was a very different experience from Mother's little herb garden.

When we reached the cemetery, it was through a side path emerging from the trees.

Rows upon rows of flat stone were embedded into the ground, stretching away from us. At the far end of the cemetery, there was a carving of a ball of flame, painted blood red, framed by a vertical half-circle of stone wall.

On that end was a gathering of people, the ends of a long table peeking out from either side, draped over with a dark cloth.

We approached, and I slowed, falling slightly behind her. I suddenly didn't want to approach the group of people at the end of the cemetery, dreading what I would find there.

A blond head separated from the group in front and came towards us.

"Shishō!" Shizune gasped, hurriedly dusting herself and me and picking the leaves and branches out of her hair.

The lady wore a blue cardigan over a modified grey yukata and dark green knee-length shorts. Her high heels clacked on the stone path and as we met in the middle, I had a tiny spat of trouble seeing her face past her large, ahem, assets.

When I looked up after taking a few steps back, it was to meet the golden gaze of a very pretty lady.

Without doubt, this was Tsunade.

"Took you long enough," she addressed Shizune, sharp eyes not missing the cling of grass to the latter's sleeves and the slightly frizzy hair. Then she bent down to ruffle my hair, glancing up at Shizune. "So? How was the little lady?"

"Haiko-san was very well-behaved, Tsunade-shishō."

"Well!" Tsunade pushed herself up. "Well-behaved or not, she has a place to be. C'mon, they're waiting."

She took my hand and led me the rest of the way.

When we approached, the small group seemed to part. A lot of them eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and weariness.

A woman with curly black hair and red eyes gave me a tiny smile. A man with pure white eyes regarded me with disdain. A lady dressed in a flowing dark purple kimono with similar-colored markings on her face smiled kindly at me. At the forefront of this group stood an old man in grey robes and a red low-laying hat, emblazoned with the kanji character of 火 (fire).

Tsunade tugged me gently towards the table.

"Do you know how to pay respects?" Tsunade asked me.

I looked at the things on the table: an elaborate flower arrangement of muted yellow, green and white, spread out like a carpet; a bronze urn in which numerous sticks of incense slowly diminished in size, wafting silvery smoke, sitting in front of Mother's portrait, framed in silver, glinting softly in the light of dusk, a serious smile that I don't ever remember captured for eternity.

I did know how to pay respects. I had attended my grandfather's funeral before my grandmother's, and both were in the traditional Chinese way. This didn't look too different.

But how can I say that I do?

I shook my head.

"Here, I'll show you," Tsunade said.

She took three sticks sticks of incense from the rectangular box beside the urn, placed their tips into the partly invisible flame of a burner (sitting off to the side), and removed the sticks when the tips began to smolder and smoke. A cloying, sweet scent drifted into the air. She stepped directly in front of the portrait, clasped her hands in front of her, and bowed deeply, three times.

"We've come to lay you to rest, Senko, I'm sorry it took so long." Tsunade murmured, "Your daughter's here too. We did as you asked. She's in good hands, this I promise you." She bowed again, sinking all the way to her knees. When she stood, she planted her three incense sticks inside the urn, stepped back, then looked down, and patted my head.

(_Senko_.)

Her eyes were slightly red-rimmed.

Wordlessly I copied her: taking new sticks of incense, lighting it, bowing.

I could almost hear the people behind me holding their breath.

"Hello Mother," I said, softly, looking into her silvery grey eyes (so her eyes were indeed white. what about mine?). "I'll visit you for sure. Sleep well."

I bowed once more, ninety-degrees, then planted my incense sticks into the urn and stepped back.

"Good girl," Tsunade knelt to give me a brief hug. I caught a glimpse of shimmering golden eyes before she turned away to melt into the crowd, then Shizune hurriedly came to lead me away.

A light drizzle began.

From the place Shizune left me (at the front lines of the crowd, beside the pretty red-eyed lady, who smiled, this time warmly, at me) I watched each person, either solo or in threes, walk up to pay their respects quietly.

The man with the white eyes (_Hyūga_) went up alone. Shizune went up with Orochimaru and Jiraiya, the latter two who stayed longer than most. Jiraiya disappeared like Tsunade soon after, face curiously hidden. The lady in purple (_Rin? No._) sank to the ground in her third bow, most likely speaking then, and only stood up after a while. The red-eyed lady placed a bouquet of bright red poppies beside Mother's portrait, so honest in their color that they seemed to shine on their own, haloed by the light rain.

Orochimaru came to stand by me, taking the spot the lady vacated.

"You are strangely calm, Haiko," he rasped, drier than I remembered. "Are you alright?"

I glanced up at him.

His yellow eyes were fixed at a distance, the rain making his hair damp. It clung to his face.

I haven't seen anyone outright cry, so I feigned ignorance.

"I'm fine, Orochimaru-sama. Are you?"

He blinked down at me, surprised. Then the shadow of a smile passed over his face and when he went back to looking forward, his features were more relaxed.

Orochimaru stayed with me throughout the rest of the funeral. We were joined by Jiraiya and Tsunade when the Hokage, after paying his respects, spoke a few words of mourning for Mother and a general thanks towards her contributions to the village. He caught my eye near the end, and I think he smiled at me under the brim of his hat, but I didn't feel inclined to smile back.

And then four shadows quivered to a stop behind the table, lifting up a coffin.

Mouth suddenly very dry, I watched them move, ghost-like, over to a vertical hole in the ground, carefully lowering the coffin inside, until the top disappeared. Then the one in a deer mask made a hand sign, and the earth piled high on the lip of the hole shifted, filling up the hole, burying the coffin, flattening itself.

The one in a fox mask picked up a black stone slab, and with a flip planted it on top of the newly filled grave.

The carvings in the stone read:

_Senko. 076—June, 103. Nature are my fingertips._

The masked people stepped back, quivered in place like a bowstring drawn taunt, then disappeared as thoroughly as if they were mist, blown apart by the wind.

The Hokage was the first to move, strolling out of sight into the trees.

People began to leave. Orochimaru left, too, to the obvious displeasure of the other two. ("I have _work_ to do.") Tsunade and Jiraiya stayed in place, growing more agitated by the second.

Are we waiting for someone? Who?

By the time the rain had turned into a proper rain, Jiraiya's face was set in a frown and Tsunade's foot had been tapping the ground for a while, lips pursed. Shizune opened a black umbrella over herself and me.

Tsunade turned to Jiraiya.

"He's not coming," she said curtly.

Jiraiya grimaced, getting soaked.

"Should we take her there, instead? Or back to Nonō?"

"Her things are already at the compound..."

"But Sakumo's not home," Tsunade bit her thumbnail.

They were silent. The rain lessened, pattering calmly onto the umbrella.

"Erm...Shishō?" Shizune piped up. "We'll all to catch a cold if—"

"Kakashi's responsible enough," Jiraiya pointed out.

"He's still just a kid."

"…She stays with one of us?"

"Who? Orochimaru would just as well stick her in a vat than tuck her into bed; I'm leaving with Shizune as soon as possible; will you take her?" It was almost an accusation.

Jiraiya looked very uncomfortable with the prospect.

And then there was a whirlwind of dirt and leaves beside them, and a silver-haired figure emerged, clad in clay-colored armor.

"Finally!" Tsunade exclaimed.

"Late again," Jiraiya mused, sounding relieved.

"Sorry, sorry!" said the man, shaking a clot of something brownish off his arm guard. "I miscalculated. We overshot. Sorry."

"As you aught to be," Tsunade gave my back a little push. "Go on Haiko. You've met him, yeah? He's Hatake Sakumo, he's your father now."

The man—Sakumo—grimaced, flicking something dark and slimy off his shoulder, "Not the best re-introduction, I'm afraid."

* * *

**AN: Several points. **

**I changed Shizune's age to about ten years senior than her anime age. I just didn't think it possible that Tsunade would be allowed to take practically an infant out of the village, nor would Tsunade stay long enough to wait for Shizune to grow up to an acceptable age to leave. Nor do I think she left, then came back for Shizune.**

**Yes, Haiko's seal went bonkers, and had to be re-done. **

**Yes, the people around her are purposefully keeping her out of sight of a mirror until the seal is proven to work.**

**Yes, the people she pointed out was a Hyūga clan member, a Yuhi clan member, and a Nohara clan member.**

**In case the timeline befuddled you, I've done something right. I don't think any normal child would be as perceptive of the passage of time like an adult, thus I don't think adults would tell Haiko, whom they perceive as merely a smarter-than-average child, the exact days she missed because they didn't think she noticed, unlike if they're addressing an adult. So Haiko has been rather disoriented about her time since the night the Sannin picked her up.**

**If my insinuations were missed, here's a rough timeline (which can be derived if you read rather carefully on and between the lines):**

**Enters the village (unconscious): 28 of June [the 'birthday']**

**Spends a week unconscious in the hospital.**

**Spends a little more than two weeks recovering in the hospital.**

**Spends about two and a half days out of the agreed week in the orphanage before being decked squarely in the face.**

**[Here it's messy, because Shizune forgot to tell her, and Orochimaru and Jiraiya didn't think it important] Unknown amount of hours/days sleeping after the sealing.**

**All in all, around a month (plus minus a few days) before she was plopped into the Hatake compound.**

**And:**

**Do y'all want to see a passive-aggressive Haiko, or a passive-aggressive Kakashi, or both, or what?**

**Drop a review!**

**Also please tell me how you felt about my little "Interlude" the last time. Should I keep doing it?**

**Reviewing only takes up to 3 minutes of your life.**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

**_flower_**


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